The Junior Consulting Detective
by The Reckless of 1998
Summary: Alex Holmes, the son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, isn't exactly what you would call normal in the eyes of his peers and classmates. Raised by his Uncle Mycroft, Alex has never known anything else, but once something hits him closer to home then he would like, Alex finds out truths which he, nor anyone else, thought possible. Better than it sounds. First Sherlock story :)
1. Chapter 1

**The junior consulting detective**

**Hi everyone, so I've got a new story for you anyone whose a Sherlock fan. This is about my OC, Alex Holmes, the son of Sherlock and Irene Adler. It's set long after the series 2 ending, so currently Sherlock is out of the picture. For now :) **

**Hope you like!**

**Chapter 1 **

Why are the simple-minded beings I have to share this city with so thick? My facial expressions must have clearly told Mrs. Reed that I was determined to leave on time, but no, the simple-minded woman decided she was going to take her time with letting us leave. I suppose it's my fault, if she knew I wanted to do something then she'd use all her power to make sure it didn't happen, just because I pointed out the obvious of her having an affair with the head teacher.

Sorry, never introduced myself, my name is Alex Holmes. That's right, Holmes, the same name as the famous consulting detective who the world loved at first, before turning on him and labeling him a fraud, causing him to take his own life. Some might say that I might be a relative; others might say it's just a coincident, but it's not.

That man, Sherlock Holmes, was my dad. I never knew him; he jumped off the top of St. Bartholomew's hospital just before I was born. Not that he even knew of me; my mother had never told him. I've had my fair share of funny looks off adults who remember the man, reading the papers. Some might have loved him, then turned their back on him, probably why he can't look me in the eye, which isn't a helpful thing as the other boys in my class pick up on it and label me as some sort of freak, one for the looks I receive, two for the fact that I'm probably ten times smarter than them.

As soon as the disgruntled Mrs. Reed finally allows our class to leave, I'm halfway towards the gates before my fellow classmates can reach for their school bags. Nobody thinks this unusual though, all they think in their boring little minds is that the strange Alex Holmes is off again, god knows doing what.

Nobody knows though, and they can't. I always try and leave school as early as possible just so I can get there on time. If I'm late home, people will wonder why. I hail a cab once I'm on the main street. London is thriving as usual, so thankfully nobody pays me much attention as I climb out of the cab and run up the steps to the entrance of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

I'm not allowed here. If Uncle Mycroft or Uncle John knew what I've been doing these last few weeks then I'd be in for it. Instead of the main entrance, I easily manage to head around the back of the building and begin my daily scale to the top of the roof. Once there, I briefly stop and enjoy the cool wind the darkening sky was emitting. I clamber over the last railing and walk the length of the roof until my black rubber school shoes are poking over the edge of the building, the wind running through my dark hair and batting at my tie and blazer.

I remain standing here, where it all happened for exactly five minutes and twenty seconds, to when I open my eyes and look straight down, relieved to see nobody had spotted me. Once someone had and the police came around and caused a whole havoc, luckily nobody suspected me. Below me right now, the narrow opinionated people who dominate the population stride down over the pavement, over the spot where he fell, as if they were blind to that very fact. They all knew, I could tell.

Once exactly six minutes ticked, I jumped from the platform to the sound my shoes crunching beneath the gravel-coated rooftop. I pick up my discarded school bag and run back down the fire escape, to be absorbed by the dense amount of people claiming the street.

_XXXXX_

As usual, I am on time as I slam the door to the home of my Uncle Mycroft. Judging by the lack of noise, light and traffic in the halls, he was still at work. Again. Clearly one of the housekeepers would be here to make sure I didn't try anymore of my disastrous experiments, but I was grateful for whoever it was not to come rushing towards me. I run through the lengthy grand entrance hall and up the dark oak stairs onto the first floor, then the second and yank open the door to my own room before slamming it shut. I thrown my school bag on my bed and pull my blazer off, kick away my school shoes and loosen my tie.

Any normal nine year old boy would have a large arrangement of toys, cuddly items and loud coloured mind-numbing objects, so whenever anyone new enters my room, they don't believe for it to be the room of nine year old, not with it's shelves of books, the violin and various pieces of equipment scattered across my desk. The faded beige walls only hold a map of the world and a poster of the periodic table. I leap onto my disarrayed bed, the duvet softening the blow as I open my navy rucksack and yank out my homework.

All the questions are fictionally based and so dull that it only takes me five minutes before I become so bored that I trot to my desk, and dump the homework in a beaker of experimental acid. Yeah, Mrs. Reed isn't becoming any fonder of me anytime soon.

For the rest of the early evening, I research all I can about human anatomy and behavior: a new topic I have suddenly become infatuated with. It's nearing seven o'clock when the housekeeper on duty calls me away from my reading for dinner. I pad downstairs in my socks to the dinning room and sit myself at the head of the long table, which is designed for at least eight, but rarely holds more than two if Uncle Mycroft can drag himself away from his work long enough.

I sit in silence as I munch away at a bland plate of leaking lasagna, watching the slow moving hand of the nearest ticking clock, which is situated on the mantle piece of a great fireplace. Once my plate is respectably clean, I leave the plate and glass in the kitchen before charging back upstairs to change. Once my uniform is in the hamper, I changed into my pair of battered trainers, jeans and a grey shirt with the NASA logo, before it was all hidden by my navy duffel coat to protect me against the growing winter chill.

Whenever winter closes in, my curfew is shortened like the limited daytime light, so I really shouldn't be leaving the house, but if I remain trapped any more I'll suffocate. I really want to try out my new knowledge of human behavior, so I walk for ten minutes till I reach the tube station and get the first train to Trafalgar Square.

The most famous place in London is always crawling with tourists, but by this time the Square would be just perfect: Not too many people, but just enough for me to go unnoticed. I arrive at the Square and sit myself on the platform, pull out my hardback jotter and pencil and begin. Many people walk past rather quickly, but when someone went past slow enough for me to study them, I write down a quick description and what I can deduct from their body language, facial expressions and appearance.

I've written roughly seven pages when the last specks of light have been claimed by the darker colours of night. The hustle and bustle of London is still active, with many on a night out, but as the seconds ticked past, more people began to glance at me. I realize it's probably a lot later than I originally intend to stay out. I jump from the platform, bidding the lions' farewell before putting my jotter away, tugging at my duffle coat as I walk down the street back towards the tube.

The walk is a lot longer when time is against you. As I push through the thickening crowds of intoxicated young adults, I notice a stereotypical red phone booth to my right, the unattended phone ringing within its scarlet tower. I turn and glance up towards a high-rise building and see a couple of CCTV camera's pointing directly to me, lenses zooming in. Turning fully around, I look in the distance to the lit up tower of Big Ben and see the 22nd hour of the day has fast approached.

I guess Uncle Mycroft finally decided to drag himself away from his precious government long enough to go home and realized I'm not there. If he is ringing phone booths, he has clearly been searching for me for some time, as my presence isn't noticeable from my usual position on the platform. I know I'm going to be in serious trouble no matter what so maybe I'll postpone to conversation with my now infuriated Uncle. I continue to stare at the ringing phone, knowing too well that Uncle Mycroft is probably watching me through the camera, as he never just lets his lackeys get on with it when I'm concerned.

A young woman (Early thirties, split with her cheating boyfriend and a serious fashion lover at a guess) approached the booth with curiosity, but just as expected, the phone immediately stopped ringing. I take one glance at the puzzled woman before moving on; the back of my neck burning with all the camera's watching me.

Uncle Mycroft has always done what he can to shelter me from the rest of the world, ever since I was mentioned in some tabloid a year after my dad's suicide. I've had a few references in the press (mostly about who my mother could be) but that hasn't happened for at least a year and a half, but Mycroft still likes to shelter me to extreme measures.

I pick up my pace as Big Ben chimes. Uncle Mycroft is going to be worse than ever when I get back home and I don't really feel like facing him just yet, so I take the longest route possible back to the tube station, knowing every step I take is being watched. I pass another two ringing phones but I just ignore them. It's going to make Uncle Mycroft madder but the punishment will be no worse. I can just imagine him yelling at the monitors, telling me to pick up.

I've gotten closer to the station now, but the throng of people has increased and it's making it difficult. I'm probably the only child outside for about five miles so I'm not expected to be here, so it's easy for people to knock into me as I stagger through the streets. A group of highly drunk teenage boys stumble pass and one of them points at me. I don't know if it's because they maybe recognize my dad from the papers and I look like him, or maybe it's because I'm just a child in their eyes, but they all circle around me and push me around whilst drinking heavily from cans.

I can feel my face burning as I struggle in the grip of the drunken boys and know that if Uncle Mycroft is indeed watching this then I'll probably never be allowed to leave the house again. I run as fast as I can, ignoring the jeers and laughter from the group as I rush down the steps to the tube station. I don't stop till I'm sitting on the train seat, breathing heavily, ignoring the strange looks I'm getting.

_XXXXX_

The front door hand only just clicked shut when Mycroft descended in rage. The man grabbed my wrist and dragged me fiercely through the entrance hall and into the large study just down the hall. I normally love this room with its old features and many leather bound books lining the walls, but right now I fear it. The second the door was shut, Mycroft rounded on me and stared straight into my eyes.

'Do you have any idea what I've been going through Alex? We couldn't find you anywhere, whilst you've been out there trying to be just like your father!' I never asked how Uncle Mycroft got this idea – it's a trait of a Holmes to know the truth upon one look at a person. Mycroft ranted and raved for next good of half an hour.

After it seemed my Uncle had ran out of breath to yell at me, he became the same concerned Uncle as usual and asked if the boys had hurt me in any way. Since the whole thing was on CCTV, he could find those boys and have them arrested within the hour, but all I think I gained is a bruise on my shoulder from one's grip. Mycroft weakly rubs his eyes before hugging my shoulders awkwardly and tell me to go up stairs.

I run the steps two at a time and find the housekeeper had run me a bath, which I sit in for half an hour before toweling dry and pulling on my pajamas. I climb straight into bed and tunnel beneath my duvet and dream, but after two hours, I awaken and desire a glass of water so I move away my smothering duvet and creep across my dark room until I lightly pull my door open, allowing my face to be lightly bathed in the soft glow of the hallway lamp. I walk barefoot downstairs, heading towards the kitchen when I hear Uncle Mycroft's voice drift through the crack beneath the door towards the main sitting area where he sits in an armchair besides the fireplace as he normally reads.

At first I think he is talking to me, but I hear some other voices and believed him to have colleges over, that is until I hear the voice of Uncle John and another who I think is a man named Lestrade who is in the police and an old family friend or something. Mycroft wouldn't be happy if he found me out of bed so I don't announce myself to Uncle John and Lestrade, just listening to the conversation with keen interest, or eavesdropping as others will say.

'I did promise his mother, John, that I'd look after him. She only came out after Sherlock died.' Mycroft was saying. I shift a little closer to the door.

'I know that, Mycroft, but this isn't what we expected either. Once he finds out then…who knows.'

The Lestrade spoke up. 'I just want to know how, I mean, everyone saw it, even you John.'

'I'm not sure myself, but we must think about how Alex would react to this.' Uncle Mycroft said, just from the tone of his voice I can imagine all three men's facial expressions. 'At first nothing then everything all at once. He's just like Sherlock himself – he won't like it and he won't accept it.'

Mycroft sighed and I hear the older man shuffle about the room. I realize that if I stay here much longer I've got a great risk of being found out and getting into more trouble. Just as feet approach the door, I slide back down the carpeted hallway to the marble floored entrance hall and up the great staircase and up to my bedroom on the second floor. I close the door with a silent click and dash over to my bedside table where I flick my lamp on.

I jump over my bed and bend down to retrieve the box. I used to look at the contents all the time, but lately I've filled the void with standing on the roof of St. Bartholomew's. I slide the box across the carpet in front of me and I sit down, back resting against my bedframe and back to the door. I lift the lid off and shuffle through the newspaper articles and odd photographs until I rind the cover page.

The photo was outside the hospital with a body being wheeled away on a stretcher. There was blood on the ground and I could faintly see Uncle John in the background of people. I've stared at this picture so many times that I don't see the image anymore, just the pixels. I re-read the article on the cover before shifting through the entire box contents, every article, every photo, and every note until all the information was once again pressed inside my skull. I don't know when, but I must have drifted off, but somehow ended up in bed. Maybe Mycroft found me, but all I remember is every single word and every single pixel.

**What do you think? Worth continuing? Let me know thanks. **


	2. Chapter 2

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys! So I check my emails this morning and find a whole load of reviews for just the first chapter! Thank you all so much! As a thank-you-gift-thingy I've decided to write you all another chapter as I'm in a Sherlock mood and you all liked the first one. So, what happens here? You'll like it, trust me!**

**Read to find out!**

**Chapter 2**

It felt as if only seconds had passed since Uncle Mycroft had found me asleep on my bedroom floor and put me to bed, to be devoured in a peaceful slumber which has been rudely interrupted by the annoying chink of sunlight which made it's way between the curtain gap. My duvet feels amazing as I shift into a more comfortable position upon the mattress, trying to ignore the light but all the peace is gone when my door swings open and the sounds of footsteps approach my bed. I feint sleep, but I know it's pointless. I can just imagine the look on Uncle Mycroft's face – eyebrow raised as he leans on his umbrella, knowing I'm faking.

I keep lying there, hoping he'll get the hint and leave, but instead before I know it, my entire duvet and pulled straight off the bed. I keep my eyes closed and stay lying there, despite the fact I am now seriously cold and Goosebumps are appearing on my arms.

'Alex, we both know that you're getting up, so why not do it sooner then later?' I sigh and open my eyes to Mycroft leaning over. I scowl and turn away, only to fall out of bed onto the floor.

'Ow.' I groan as I sit up and rub my arm. Mycroft rolls his eyes and moves back towards my door.

'I expect you washed and dressed and at the table in the next ten minutes, Alex.' He closes the door just in time otherwise he would have been hit with my pillow, which sailed across the room and flopped against the door.

I beat Mycroft's time limit by a minute as I walk into the dining area to see the man sitting at the head of the table, reading the paper as he finished off his cup of morning tea. I sit two seats away from him and begin eating the bowl of coco pops, which the morning maid has left for me.

Mycroft finishes his paper and folds it up. I can tell he's watching me as I polish off the remainders of my cereal but I don't say anything. With my lack of any sort of response, Mycroft sighs as he drains his cup and places it on the saucer.

'Alex, we still need to discuss the previous night.' The spoonful of chocolate cereal stuck in my throat and when I did just manage to swallow it a furnace was alive in my stomach.

'You disobeyed my rules, which I placed down for your own protection, for that, I'm not allowing you to leave this house for a month unless you are under my supervision or for school.'

I just turn and stare.

'That's not fair! I didn't know the time! Everyone else gets to go out expect me. Nothings going to happen Uncle, nobody remembers me.' The last parts a lie and we both know it, but the attention which used to stick to me like glue as watered down a great deal as people finally get bored of the same stories of the mysterious child of the dead fraud genius.

'I won't be persuaded, Alex, my house, my rules. You live here and you disobeyed those rules, so now you're paying the price.' I let my spoon drop against my bowl and lean back in my chair with a sigh. Then I remember.

'What about tonight, Uncle John was taking me out somewhere wasn't he?' Mycroft rubbed his eyes and left his seat, straightening his three-piece suit jacket at the same time.

'I'm not too sure it's the best idea for you to go out tonight, Alex, even if it is with John. Unforeseen events have arisen which are…complicated, in the least. I doubt they are going to blow over and they will have a large impact on you but I want you to have the same life for as long as you can.' Uncle Mycroft picks up his mobile and heads towards the door. I didn't understand a single thing he said so I just ignore his little speech and stand up and immediately follow him.

'It's Uncle John, nothing bad's going to happen whilst he's around. Pleeeease, Uncle. I promise I'll follow the rules to the letter from now on.' Mycroft raised his eyebrow as he pondered. The man reached out and straightened my scarlet school tie before leaving the room. I follow him into the hall and follow him outside where a car is waiting for him.

'I'll think about it, Alex. For now I must be going, I have many important matters at hand to deal with.' Mycroft climbed into the back of the car and I watched it until the main road absorbed the vehicle. I remain standing on the doorstep before heading back inside the house. I head towards the dining room to see if I can have some more cereal, but something catches my eye. Uncle Mycroft had left his office door open.

He never did that. He must be occupied if he forgets to shield thing away. Curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself back in his study. The memory of the conversation I overheard the previous night comes swimming back. What had they been talking about? Uncle John had been here yet he didn't ask to see me, which was completely out of character for him. Maybe they didn't want me to know Uncle John had been here, but why? What could be so top secret?

I just glance over the files which are unhealthily neat and organized on the desk surface because the slightest mark on any one piece of paper and Uncle Mycroft would know I've been in here when I'm not allowed unless he said I am. I scan read the documents at top speed; nothing sparking any interest till a small slip of paper caught my eye.

It's scrunched up and on the floor next to the bin. I bend down and pick the scrap up, unfolding the crumpled piece in my hands. I read the address over and over again, but my head isn't absorbing them as it does with everything else new it reads. It's because it's not new information. I know this address. I've been to it once in my whole life with Uncle Mycroft and Uncle John.

I've always wanted to go back but Mycroft was firmer than ever and it seemed to be the ultimate rule not to break. But right now rules are far from my mind. I screw the paper back up and drop it in the bin as I already have the address memorized.

I pull on my school shoes, fasten my blazer and pick up my bag and leave the house, hailing a black London cab once I reach the main road. The cabby glances at my school uniform but doesn't say anything. I tell him the address and he drives off. Whilst I sit in the back seat of the cab, I am totally oblivious to the man across the road, who has followed me since I left home. The man snapped one last photo on his camera phone before hailing a cab himself and following the cab I am in, as he knows exactly where I am going.

_XXXXX_

I pay the cab fair and step outside the gates of Central London City Cemetery. The cab drives off, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the memories of hundreds of deceased members of society. I haven't been here since I was little, when I first started asking questions at about four years of age, yet I remember the path perfectly in my mind. My feet trace the gravel slowly as I pass the decaying stones which all hold memorabilia.

I reach the end of the official path and cross the green, more aware of the soft ground and hazy sunlight than ever. I walk and walk until I get there and stop.

The stone is just as it was all those years ago when I saw it last, and just the same as the day he was buried. I take a few more steps forward and sit in front of the headstone on the damp grass, not caring about anything as my eyes remain transfixed on the headstone. Some flowers had been left here, but they seem older than what was necessary, as they remained wiltered. I pull my bag to my side and dig around till I find the covered photo, protected behind a plastic sheet. The man within the picture had dark curls and had a vacant expression on his face, which worked with the high cheekbones. Apparently I'm just like him, which seems to worry Uncle Mycroft, as if I'm going to jump from a rooftop as well.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here but my entire lower body has gone numb from sitting for so long. I sigh and stand up, wondering what I'm doing here. Granted it's better than school any day but why _here_?

I never knew him and I never will. But lately for some reason I've become more and more interested in him. As if I really want to talk to him. I've tried asking people about him but nobody wants to talk about him. Not John, not Mycroft, no one.

My heart rate increases by the estimate of 5% when I hear the twig snap. It could have been just a bird or something, I think to myself. That is until another one snaps from under what sounds like shoes. Size seven I'd say, male and quite tall.

My analysis is correct as I see a distinctive male figure covered by some trees not to far away. The long hanging branches of the trees have covered his face so I can't identify him, all I see I that he is tall and thin, wearing a long dark coat. Knowing that his cover had been compromised, the man turned on his heel and swept away.

Maybe it was the curiosity factor or the adrenaline rush I got, I don't know what but something made me stand up and chase after the man. I speed through the cemetery after the shrinking figure as the man became more faint in the horizon. I follow him out of the gates and along the roads.

I don't what I'm going to do if I ever catch up to him; I'm practically a stick and the man could easily snap me if he so wished. But that didn't matter as I ran out on to the street from behind a corner and lost sight of him as the space between people shrunk away.

I's still standing in the middle of the street, not sure of what to do. I check my watch and see it's only eleven. If I go home, there's a chance Mycroft could have come home early (Unlikely but the chance is still there) or I can go to school and say I've been to the dentist or something. I decide on the latter and head towards the tube station, still thinking of the man, who is thinking of me as he watches me, without my knowledge, as I descend the steps to the station.

_XXXXX_

I can tell Mrs. Reed doesn't believe a word I've said about being at the dentist, but she doesn't say it, instead she asks for the homework, which I burned in a beaker of acid the previous night. I tell her the truth, mostly, that the homework she assigned was for the children of Neanderthals who can't tell left from right. This doesn't go down too well as you can expect, as I'm sent to the head-teachers office in apparent utter disgrace.

I walk the length halls of the private school Mycroft worked hard at enrolling me in. If he got another call from the head then that was it, he would probably keep me under lock and key for the rest of my life. So instead, I detour to the cloakroom and sit on the bench beneath my peg, taking out my book on human behavior and pick up from where I left off.

After an hour of happy and content reading, the bell signaling lunch rings in my ears and the corridors are filled with the masses, students all dashing about, ignoring the blatant yells from the prefect on duty. I know there's no point in seeing the head now as he liked to apparently go out for his lunch at a local café, but he really went down the bookies and bet on several different horse and dogs, which always ends in disaster judging by his usual afternoon demeanor and the reason for the arguments between him and his wife, resulting in his affair with Mrs. Reed.

I decide I might as well eat before the confrontation with the head and probably Mycroft, so I unpack my rucksack and pull out the plastic tub containing my lunch. I can never stand sitting with people with minuscule IQ's for so long with their stupid behavior and all the leftover food they throw at me so I go outside and sit on a bench besides the door, my legs swinging out from beneath my grey school shorts. Just as I am about to take a bite out of my sandwich, a hand appears from nowhere and grabs the back of my dark curls and yanks me up from the bench. I a split second, the hand is gone from my hair and its twin arrives and both clutch at the red suspenders the school makes me and the rest of the student population wear.

The person in question is a idiot, or rather Philip Jenkins. On a good day he's lucky to even be considered a Neanderthal with his limited attention span and intelligence. His good days, trust me, are rare. The older boy pulls on my suspenders until they snap back and cause me to yelp in sudden pain.

'If you were really at the dentist this morning, freak, then you're going to need to go back there in a minute cause I'm going to smash your teeth in bad.'

'Badly.' I correct automatically. 'Going to smash your teeth in badly. Please restrain yourself from acting stupid around me, it's very annoying. You may have a placid mind, which is so easy to follow, but I'm rather happy with my own and I don't want your stupidity rubbing off on me.' Wrong thing to say. Maybe that's what Mycroft means when he say's I talk like a Holmes, because, judging by the look on the boys face, I have a totally of one minute before I really need to go to the dentist.

_XXXXX_

It happened so fast, one-minute the boy's fist was plummeting towards me, the next we're both outside the head teacher's office, the school nurse checking over Philip who seems to have gained a bleeding lip. My nose is bleeding rather heavily, but I've got a tissue to help stem the flow but will need replacing.

Mr. Harrison's head appears from around the door and I can tell that he lost at the bookies again. He frowns at me and calls me down the smaller corridor into his office where my worst nightmare is – Mycroft is sitting in the seat in front of the desk, twirling his closed umbrella on the carpet. Normally he will send his assistant if he can't get out of work. And he never gets out of work so this must be extreme if he managed to leave his precious government for more than a second.

Mycroft turns to look at me and I can instantly see the anger and disappointment in his eyes. I never act the way a typical nine-year-old boy does, but right now I hang my head in shame and draw on the carpet with my toes, acting like any boy my age would when in deep trouble.

'Sit down Alex.' Mr. Harrison sigs and I sit next to Mycroft, who turns away from me. Mr. Harrison turns to Mycroft and begins explain the severity of the situation.

'Alex cannot keep going on like this. He's probably the brightest in the school, but maybe if he dedicated that intelligence to his schoolwork and interacting with other members of society, then maybe he'd get somewhere in life. I don't want to have to do this, but this isn't the first incident with Alex where he's been involved in serious situations. But I don't believe we can offer him the attention he needs.' You get the idea – I've been expelled. Mycroft's going to love this. I sit in silence, hoping to evaporate on the spot, there and then.

Mycroft goes thin lipped and nods to Mr. Harrison, expressing his apology. Mycroft then turns to me and I mutter an apology to Mr. Harrison. When the dull-minded Mrs. Reed finds out she'll probably do a jig or something.

We leave to office and Mycroft doesn't say a word until we reach the car waiting for us. We both get in the back and I scoot as far from him as I can until I'm totally pressed up against the window. Mycroft slams the door as he gets in and hides his face in his hand as the driver starts the engine.

'Why Alex? Is it so hard for you to just try? What's gotten into you lately?' I sink low in my seat until only my eyes are visible on the other side of the car window.

'I'm sorry Uncle Mycroft.'

We reach home and Uncle Mycroft sends me straight upstairs where I remain for the rest of the night. The housekeeper left me some dinner outside my door. I chew half-heartedly on the broccoli as I stare at the wall. My minds blank. Normally it's always busy, but now it's empty and I don't like the alien feeling.

I sit for hours, trying to get something into my head but nothing work, not even my book. When I'm certain it's nearing midnight, I hear the doorbell ring and Mycroft answer it. There's a distance buzz of communication, which I suddenly become interested when I hear my own name being mentioned. I leave my room and walk carefully and slowly in my socks, aware of the creaking floorboards on the landing as I make it to the top of the first stair landing.

The banister is in the way so I drop to the floor, lying flat on my stomach to see the back of Uncle Mycroft's head as he speaks to the man in the hall. My breath catches in my throat, as if instead of breath it's acid, burning at my throat and stomach as it tries to get out.

There, standing in the hall, is the man from the cemetery. I recognize the posture and clothing in a second. But now I can see his face. It's a face I recognize, from photographs and news articles only. The face that I apparently share similarities with. A face that should be rotting six feet under the earth. The dark curls; the long coat, the scarf and the high cheekbones said it all. Sherlock Holmes is standing in the entrance hall. The man who is supposed to be dead. The man who is my dad.

I shift on my stomach, I'm not sure if I'm moving closer or backing up, but moving was a mistake, as the old floorboards beneath me groaned it's age, audible to anyone in the entrance hall. Sherlock looks up and catches my eye. My mouth hanging open, I look straight back at him, unsure of how this is happening. His green eyes stare into my identical ones, as we both stare at each other in utter silence.

**Oooh! Cliffhanger for you there! I love Sherlock so I had to bring him in this chapter. So how's Alex going to react? Tell me your opinions of this chapter and any suggestions you might have, let me know if it's still worth continuing. **


	3. Chapter 3

**The Junior Consulting Detective.**

**Hi guys, been a bit of a longer wait, but I had to re-write this chapter to meet certain standards. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed the last two chapters, they mean a lot to the story and me. **

**Chapter 3**

The events of last night are just misshapen memories. But I cling to them, as I feel groggy as my conscious mind returns. It's my lifeline back to the world of the living.

'_Alex!' John had yelled. (When had he gotten there? He must have always been there.) The man held me back as I lashed out. He just stood there, hands behind his back, a cool demeanor in place as I shout, scream and ball my lungs to oblivion. It can't be real. He's dead, he's always been dead, my whole life, he's been dead. John holds me around the waist and tugs me away with force and great difficulty. I don't know why I'm crying; surely I should be happy? But the truth is too much. He's alive, but that's not all. _

_He knew, he always knew. He's known of me for years now, I can see it in his eyes, but only now has he decided to come out of the shadows and face demons. Right now I must be a pretty horrific demon; I've punched and kicked and hurled my weight at the man, daring him to fight back but he didn't. And that's what I can't stand – the lack of a reaction. He just stands there; cool as you like, as if he's in complete control of everything going on, not a care in a world. _

_The more I think about the lack of reaction, the lack of any recognition, then the more tears stream down my red face. John is gripping my waist as tightly as he can, backing up and taking me with him, away from Sherlock. _

_I didn't mean to hurt Uncle John, but I had to get out. I elbowed the man in the stomach and pushed away. Mycroft and Sherlock watched as I rushed to the door and pulled it open and ran out into the bleak night. Mycroft shouted after me but that was it. John, still clutching his stomach, tried to run after me but I was long gone. I faded into the night and kept running. _

_I'm lost. I remember being lost. I've been running and running but I can't anymore. I'm not wearing shoes, just my socks with the dinosaurs on them: not good protection against the cold, damp pavement of the London streets. I don't even have my blazer, just my white school shirt. I'm just lucky it's long sleeved. _

_I kept going though until I reach Hampstead Heath as it's not too far from Mycroft's home. It's dark, as Midnight has long since struck, so the park is deserted. I sit on the first bench I find and rub my sore feet. In the silence of night, the peace is broken by my sobs. I clutch at my dark curls and tug. They're the same as his. I used to want to be the same as him, just this morning I wanted to be like him, but now I hate him. I hate him I hate him. He could have come back. I knew he knew about me but instead he just hid himself away from everyone and his responsibilities. I don't know what's changed and made him come out of the shadows, but I don't care. I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him. _

_I buried my face in my knees and muttered the same three words over and over again in my mind and occasionally out loud. Soon the words weren't any good in my head. I began chanting them, louder and louder until I screamed it as loud as I could and fell silent. I glanced out across the heath, the trees rustling in the wind, shadows dominated the world now and I only just realized how unsafe it was to stay out here at this time of night on my own. Maybe Mycroft's ranting finally got through to me. _

_But maybe if I had more sense I would have run up to my room instead out into the night. I remember greatly regretting my decision when a drunk stumbled up to me. _

'_Hey posh lad, what ya doin' out 'ere?' He slurred his words. I guess my uniform did sort of label me as 'posh'. I buried my face in my knees again and hoped he would move on. I thought he had until he reached out and grabbed my wrist, yanking me towards him. _

'_Let me go!' _

'_What's up with you posh lad? They not teach ya manners no more?' _

'_Let me go!' I repeated, struggling against the man's tight grip. _

_The man was highly intoxicated, more then the lads the other night had been. He had a strong grip that seemed impossible to rid of. The man began violently shaking me, cursing and screaming. _

_I felt pure terror until another new hand appeared out of the night in the form of a fist and punched the man on the jaw. The man jerked away and pushed me to the ground. I fall to the floor and whack my temple on the armrest of the bench, which I had previously sat. I fell to the floor, the world spinning out of control as I gained a pounding headache. I look up and see a blurred figure pushing the drunken man away. Then the person turned to me and lifted me off the ground._

_My vision was blurred and I couldn't make sense of anything. My body was frozen as if paralyzed. The person began walking off, still holing me. I didn't know who the person was as my mind began to fade. All I focused on was the wind, which was lightly blowing against my flushed face, cooling me off and the comfort in the man's arms whilst my hand clutched at the lapels of his long black coat. _

As you can imagine, my head feels like there's a marching band parading within my brain on full volume. I shift around and feel the warming presence of a duvet wrapped around me. I open my eyes to bleary vision that clears up after a certain amount of blinking. I push the heavy duvet off me to see that I'm not in my own bed back at Uncle Mycroft's. I'm in a new room, one that I don't recognize.

It's pretty void of personal effects; the only thing that tells me anything about the owner is the large periodic table on the wall to my right, telling me their love of science. I make to climb out of bed, but head spins and catch's me off guard, resulting with me falling out of bed and landing on the floor with a soft flump.

I lean up and clutch at the bed as I pull myself up onto the mattress. To my right on the bedside table, I see a note and recognize the scrawl of Uncle John. The note was besides a glass of water and a pair of Paracetamol. The note told me to be careful and take the pills. I gulped the foul medication down with a few gulps of water and in a few minutes my headache began to clear up.

I finally managed to stand up without support and falling on my backside properly. I walk to the door and slowly open it, hoping it won't make any indication of me being awake; I'd rather explore before meeting whoever lives here. Outside the bedroom is a short corridor, probably two meters along and then a kitchen. I walk in my socks across the carpet until I'm in the kitchen. There was a thin layer of dust in the air, as if someone hadn't lived here for a while and had only just returned. The kitchen's wooden table was decked with plenty of science equipment to supply a school instead of a tablecloth.

I walk over to the table and check out the microscope left there. It was pretty advanced and I can't resist looking over it.

'Well look who's up.' The voice startles me and I nearly jump out of my skin. I whip around and see Uncle Mycroft sitting in a chair with his back to me, leaning around to give me that small facial feature which is the closest to a smile he does. In the armchair opposite him, facing me and staring strait at me is Him. Again.

'How's your head?' Sherlock asked, no genuine concern sounding in his voice as he looks at me, his chin resting on his thumbs, his two index fingers pointing up.

I walk into the room and stand by Uncle Mycroft, not answering Sherlock's question.

'Are we going home soon Uncle?' Mycroft grinned again and twirled his umbrella on the carpet besides a fireplace. I notice a real human skull on the mantelpiece, watching me with the empty eye sockets.

'What did I tell you, Sherlock? I said the first thing he'd ask would be to come back to mine.'

'Never the less, brother dear, you know my suggestion.'

'Indeed.' Mycroft sighs. The man pulls out his mobile and checks the time. I wonder about what Sherlock's 'suggestion' was, but I didn't fancy sticking around to find out. Undoubtedly, when I returned home, Mycroft will lecture me about running off and acting like a child and want to talk about Sherlock's return, but that I can deal with if it means I never have to see Him again.

'Uncle Mycroft?' I ask again and the man sighs before standing up and re-pocketing his mobile.

'Well then, Sherlock, duty calls. I must be off.' Sherlock grunted as he picked up his violin and plucked the strings, checking the tune. Uncle Mycroft walks over to the door and I follow him. Once at the door, Mycroft turns and looks down at me.

'Alex, I'm afraid you're staying here.' Is he serious? I look towards the door and see a small suitcase in the hall, identical to my own. He can't be, seriously, telling me I've got to stay here?

'I'm not staying here! Don't make me Uncle, please!'

Mycroft sighed through his nose and said goodbye to me.

'He's your father, Alex. He may be technically dead, but he's still your father…think of it as a science experiment, you love them so much.' Mycroft nodded to Sherlock and me once more before descending the stairs, my eyes following him until he was out of sight and I heard the front door close. I stay standing there for a few moments as I let it sink in – Uncle Mycroft had just left me here with his no good brother who just happened to be my dead father.

I slowly turn on the spot and look back into the living room of what I assume is 221B Baker Street. Uncle John had told me many times before of the apartment where they had solved cases and all the explosions from disastrous experiments and how the wall had been shot on numerous occasions.

I glance over my shoulder and see the wall exactly how Uncle John had said: a smiley face painted on with bullet marks all around, a symptom of Sherlock's boredom.

I turn and look at the man himself who is still occupied with his violin. Once certain all strings were in tune, he looked up at me to see me looking.

'There's a spare room upstairs, I suggest you take your things up there and have a shower.' He indicated to my crumpled school uniform.

'Why do I have to stay here?' I nearly spit as I pick up my case, so tempted to run out the door, but knowing I'd be found and brought back in shame stopped me.

'Like Mycroft said: an experiment. John will be here later, and there's Mrs. Hudson downstairs, so you're not stuck with just me.'

I head towards the stairs in the hall and begin climbing them, lugging my case before I stop and turn around to face Sherlock again.

'I hate you.' I say.

'I gathered.' Sherlock said. I continued up the stairs, dreading my new life in Baker Street, unaware of Sherlock watching my every move.

_XXXXX_

The room I have been allocated is just plain: Plain walls, a single window with a bed under the ledge, a dresser and a desk and chair. There was a small bookshelf to the side of the bed with a lap on top and that was all. I lifted my case and dropped it onto the bed an unzipped it. I pulled out a fresh set of clothes and head to the bathroom across the landing besides another room that I expect used to be Uncle John's.

Once showered, I pull on a pair of clean jeans and a long sleeved navy shirt. After that I don't know what to do so I head back downstairs. Sherlock is on his laptop and staying silent with suits me perfectly. I glance around the room and wander over to the bookshelf and spy a box on top of a stack of discarded books. I wander over and stand on a chair, ignoring Sherlock who looked up from his computer.

I pull the box down and confirm my suspicions: the box was a chess set. Uncle Mycroft taught me how to play from when I was three and I find the game takes my mind away from certain things. I carry the box over to the sofa and spread the board out on the coffee table and set up the pieces. I play against myself slowly, taking my time in re-thinking my methods.

After an hour of playing, I get stuck as I challenge myself to beat my own system. As I pounder my next move I hear a light tapping sound. It shakes me away from my mind and I look up to see Sherlock watching me, tapping his hand on the edge of the desk in what seems impatience.

'What?' I ask in a not-so-friendly-tone. Sherlock raised his eyebrow at me in a way that made me see a small connection between him and Uncle Mycroft.

'You've been in the same position for the last ten minutes, either make your move or give up.'

'Mind your own.' I mutter and turn back to my game. Sherlock offered me a solution but I ignore him, determined to find my own way out of the mess.

I hear the man sigh audibly and assume he is returning to whatever work he is doing but instead he gets up and sits on the sofa besides me and turns the chess set sideways and makes a move. I glare at him and slam one piece in a new position. Sherlock met my match and moved another piece. The game continued for the next half hour until I realized I could call Checkmate. I never beat another Holmes, as Uncle Mycroft was exceptionally good. I give off a small grin, which becomes a little awkward when Sherlock catches my eye. He gives a brief smirk and stands up, straightening his dark suit jacket. I thought for a second he was done with me but he headed to the bookshelf and pulled a game of Cluedo off the shelf.

'I assume you know how to play?' I shrug my shoulders and Sherlock swipes the chess board off the coffee table with one sweep of his arm and begins to unpack the game.

_XXXXX_

'Oh please! It's clearly the old guy, his so called 'innocent' façade is so easy to look through if you know how to open your eyes!' I yell as Sherlock and I debate who the real criminal in the game truly is. Neither of us had noticed Uncle John come in with Mrs. Hudson and both watch us from the doorway.

'I thought you said you were smart! It was clearly the victim themselves! Nobody would expect it to be the victim! It's the perfect crime.' Sherlock stated in protest against my case.

'Because it's impossible for them to dispose of the evidence when they're dead!' I cry. We hear muffled laughter and we both turn to see Mrs. Hudson with her hand over her mouth and John smirking.

'Looks like you've met your match Sherlock.' John said and Sherlock and me glanced at each other.

**Seems Sherlock and Alex are competitive with each other, where will it go? Please review and tell me you opinions on this story, they help me want to write more; need to know if you all still like it. **


	4. Chapter 4

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys, sorry again for the longer wait. It's half term now so I'll try and write some more for you all. So here's the next chapter, hope you like it!**

**Chapter 4 **

Breakfast has probably been the quietest part of my time here in Baker Street. It's my first morning and Mrs. Hudson keeps trying to feed me up with as many slices of toast and jam she can force down me and asking John if I'm underweight. I'm just small and skinny, always have been.

Uncle John just smiles at Mrs. Hudson and thanks her for breakfast. She smiles at us both and offers some to Sherlock who is on the other side of the table staring at his laptop screen. Probably looking for a case before the wall needs re-placing due to more bullet holes.

The doorbell downstairs rings and Mrs. Hudson leaves to answer it. Part of my body jolts at the sound of the doorbell, wondering if it's Uncle Mycroft to take me back to his house. But in the back of my mind I'm hoping it sort of isn't. Last night Sherlock let me go through some of his old case files and use his microscope. I still don't like him, but I rather enjoyed myself. That's all.

Sherlock slams the lid of his laptop shut with force that the pot of jam shakes. The man seems to be a wreck, his curls astray and the fact that he is unable to sit still. John glances at me before turning to Sherlock.

'Doubt it's that bad.' He said with his mouth full of toast. Sherlock turned to look at Uncle John as if he had just said the stupidest thing any human could manage.

'You expect me just to sit here and _read_ about cases that are happening out there?' Sherlock acted as if this was the worst thing that could happen. The man strolled over to the sofa and flopped down on it.

'It's what you get for pretending to be dead.' I mutter under my breath and I'm certain he heard me but neither he nor Uncle John said anything. Instead they drew their attention to the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs to 221B. From the sound of the heavy footfalls, I know that it isn't Uncle Mycroft.

I turn and see Lestrade standing at the door, out of breath. Sherlock stood up instantly, practically demanding a case.

'You have no idea just how dangerous this is Sherlock.' Uncle John is right – Sherlock Holmes is technically dead and if he were found investigating a crime scene then all hell would break loose.

Lestrade nodded as if reading my thoughts. 'It's risky, but we're stumped.'

'Are you sure you're not going to start believing he caused crime?' Uncle John said and Lestrade looked sheepish.

'I never thought it was him, Donavon and Anderson went to the Super, after that there was nothing I could have done.' We turned to Sherlock who was returning from his bedroom, fully dressed and ready.

'You'll come?' Lestrade half asked half hoped out loud.

'Of course I will, I won't be able to stand sitting in here for much longer.' Lestrade smiles and gave Sherlock the address and told him to be there in exactly one hour when he'd managed to get as many officers as he could away from the crime scene. Lestrade pounded back down the stairs. Once we all heard the front door slam, Sherlock jumped in the air with a triumph look on his face. I just look at Uncle John who shakes his head.

Uncle John then starts telling Sherlock of the dangers of him going to investigate again which leads into a fully scale argument between the two men. I slip away from the table and head out on to the landing where Mrs. Hudson is cleaning a picture frame.

Mrs. Hudson looked up and saw me leaning against the banister.

'Be careful, Alex, you'll fall.' The elderly lady smiled before she strained her ears to hear Uncle John and Sherlock arguing. 'Oh dear, it's just like old times.' She smiled at me before heading back downstairs for more polish. I remain standing on the landing, leaning now up against the wall, listening through the now closed living room door.

'You can't just pick up from where you left off Sherlock!' John yelled. I step back a bit; I've never heard Uncle John yell that loud, not since I was little and shaved half of his moustache off in his sleep. (What? I didn't like it much)

'I can, John, I'm dead, whatever I do nobody will know I was ever there.' Sherlock reasoned as I heard him pace around the room.

'That's just it Sherlock, you're dead! If people find out you're not they'll come after you. And there's Alex!'

'What about him?'

'People leave him alone because you're dead, if people find out you cheated it, they'll want to get back at you and Alex will end up paying the price.'

'He can look after himself, he's proven that before and I'm certain he'd agree as he's just outside this door listening to every word we say.' My face turns red and I charge up the stairs to my new room.

_XXXXX_

When the time came for Sherlock to head over to the crime scene, Uncle John pulls on his coat and looks over to me reading a book on the sofa.

'How's the book, Alex?' I shrug my shoulders and grunt a reply. Uncle John strides over and see's what page I'm on before taking the book and putting it on the coffee table.

'Come on, get your coat on.'

'Brilliant idea, John, a child at a murder scene won't stand out a bit.' Sherlock said as he buttoned up his coat.

'Neither will a walking dead man inspecting another dead man.' I mutter. Sherlock looks at me as he pulls on his scarf. John just ignores the both of us and handed me my duffle coat, which I pull on begrudgingly.

The three of us head downstairs and pass Mrs. Hudson who begins saying need a hat, scarf, snow-suit and many other pieces of fabric to keep me warm as I'm so small. She rants at Sherlock who rolls his eyes and whips off his own scarf and wraps it around my neck. Mrs. Hudson is somewhat more satisfied and Uncle John and Sherlock pull me out the door before she makes me deck out as if I'm in the North Pole.

The street is quite nippy but nothing as drastic as Mrs. Hudson suggests. We slowly walk down Baker Street, looking for a cab to hail.

'So what's the case?' I ask Uncle John as we stand in the street. Before my Uncle can answer, Sherlock buts in.

'Nothing you'd be able to work out.' The man said as he hails an oncoming cab.

'Try me.' I glare at the man who stares straight back at me. We climb into the back of the typical black London cab.

'Ok then, one body found dead in their own house, no fingerprints or anything. Footprints, but that's all. No physical damage done to the body as far as the police can see, but that's nothing new as they're all incompetent, especially when Anderson is there.' I think the details over in my head whilst we travel in the cab towards Camden where the victim was found. I can feel Sherlock's eyes on me the whole time but I don't say anything as I try and work the details out in my head.

We arrive at the house and pay the cabbie the fair. The house is a white semi-detached, cornered of by the police. There were a few uniformed officers keeping the interested locals at bay, but apart from that it seems Lestrade managed to get the others out of the house so they wouldn't see us, Sherlock especially.

Lestrade met us at the front door, constantly looking back into the house and down the hall.

'Let's see the body then.' Sherlock stated as he shuffled past Lestrade into the victim's home.

'Two minutes. That's all. Anderson is in the backstreet. If he comes in here and see's you, then, well you know…' We do know, so we all move into the sitting room where the body is laying on the wooden floor, facedown.

'Name's Gareth Wilson. 39, has two kids who live in Birmingham. A neighbor let herself in to check on him this morning, say's he's been depressed lately, thought he could have committed suicide.' Gareth Wilson…I recognize the name but I can't place it unless I see his face. I'm not allowed to touch the body so I wander around the house looking for photos whilst Sherlock and Uncle John check the body over.

I wander thought the hall through to the kitchen and glance across the floor. There were faint footprints from a man's boots leading to the backdoor but then turning on the spot and heading back towards the front door as his main way of exit. I wander fully into the kitchen and look through the window and see Anderson investigating the bolt on the gate. I roll my eyes at the man – if he had checked the footprints properly, then he'd know the killer never left through the backdoor. Idiot.

At that moment, Anderson looked back through the kitchen window and I duck down. I'm not sure if he saw me or not so I stay down and shuffle back into the hall before heading into the dining room. That's when I remembered who Gareth Wilson is. There were various photographs of the dead man around the room – on holiday, with his kids, in a classroom. To be more precise: a science classroom. Gareth Wilson had been the science teacher at the private school Mycroft had gotten me into and the one I'd gotten kicked out of.

He'd been the chemistry teacher who had not looked at me in a funny way. He had always said he'd admired Sherlock Holmes for his deductions on his cases and how I should follow my own instincts in the same direction. He had been the only teacher who I liked at school, but he had left last year after his wife left him. On the dining room mantelpiece, was a class's photograph with him in the centre, surrounded by many pupils. I was in the far left corner, looking surly and distant, as usual.

I head back into the front room where Sherlock was pocketing his pocket magnifier.

'Time's up Sherlock. What have you got?' Lestrade said, rubbing his eyes.

'Victim wasn't beaten; instead he was forced to swallow some substance which would have caused great pain whilst he was tied up. So far so obvious.'

'Obvious?' Lestrade said, clearly believing it was all made up.

'Look,' Sherlock said. 'Rope marks around his writs and ankles. Killer removed them when he was dead. The substance was clearly painful as he has nail marks in the palms of his hands and he's broken the skin on his lip from biting it.'

'How'd you get the substance was forced?' Lestrade asked. I moved more into the room and looked at the body of my dead teacher.

'There's slight bruising.' Uncle John pointed out. 'Around his jaw line, clearly he was forced to eat something he didn't want to.' We stood in silence before the dead man. Just as I open my mouth to say what I know when we heard voices and the backdoor shut.

'Quick,' Lestrade said as he ushered us out of the living room into the hall and outside.

'Lestrade?' We heard Anderson call out but Lestrade followed us away from the house into a back street, running as we go.

'Anything else boys?' Lestrade asked between breaths. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but I beat him to it.

'Killer isn't local.' I say. The three of them turn to lookdown at me.

'How'd you get that?' Uncle John asks.

'There are footprints leading to the backdoor. If you break in a house and kill someone, you leave through the backdoor so there's less chance of you being seen. But the footprints reach the back door then head back to the front door. Clearly he looked out and saw the alleys and realized he'd get lost, so he left the way he came which was risky, but less risky then getting lost so close to where the murder happened. He would clearly have discriminating evidence on his clothes and the rope he took so he'd have to get away as fast as he could. Also, he was a teacher at my old school up to last year. ' I take a moment to catch my breath before continuing. 'Anderson would have saw the footprints reach the door, but not turning and going back, that's why he's investigating the back gate, the idiot thinks the killer went out the back, even though there is nothing on the door at all and it's still locked as his keys are on the hook in the hall, clearly abled 'Backdoor'. If you unlock a door with the keys, you'd take them with you, fingerprints or anything can get onto keys.'

Lestrade stared at me with his mouth hanging open slightly, Uncle John stared at me as well, clearly not as surprised as I've probably demonstrated this around him before. My eyes slowly look to Sherlock who is standing besides me. He actually looks impressed with what I've come up with one look, the same as he does. There's something else in his eyes, which I can't get. For a moment I think it's pride but the look is gone as soon as it came.

'He's certainly your kid, Sherlock.' Lestrade said.

XXXXX

For the rest of the day, we headed back to 221B Baker Street and read all the case files of people who had been killed in similar circumstances. Mrs. Hudson had gone out, proven after Sherlock shouted for her a thousand times so for dinner John phoned up a local Chinese takeaway and we ate the curry, rice and chips as we went through at least a dozen different case files.

By ten o'clock, John decided I was to go to bed, which I'm reluctant to do. But I was pressured into climbing the stairs. I change into my pajama's and climb into bed and pick up the book which John had taken off me earlier this morning.

After about two hours, I can hear Uncle John climbing the stairs to go to bed himself but stop outside my door. He must have seen the faint glow of my lamp through the gap under the door, as when he opens it, he doesn't seem surprised about me being awake still.

'Why aren't you asleep?'

'Can't sleep.' I mutter as I keep my eyes on the page of my book. Uncle John comes over and takes the book out of my hands again and looks at the page number.

'Something's wrong with you, Alex. You were on chapter three this morning, and after two hours you're only on the title page for chapter five and you're normally a much faster reader.' I raise my eyes at this, impressed by Uncle John's deduction.

'You don't have to be a Holmes to see the obvious all the time. What's wrong?'

'That man, Mr. Wilson. I've been wondering why someone would kill him. He was nice, nobody had a bad thing to say about him, yet someone ties him to a chair and refuse him the antidote for a painful poison. What for? Information? Fun?' Uncle John shrugged his shoulders and looked at me.

'I don't know Alex. If we want answers we've got to find the killer, only he can give us them. Go to sleep and we'll see what we can do in the morning.' I nod and place my book down on the floor before turning off my lamp.

'Night Uncle John.'

**Now we've got a murder to solve, I've got a pretty good idea on where this is going to lead so give me your opinions on this story and I'll get writing again soon. **


	5. Chapter 5

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hey everyone, sorry for the wait on this chapter, had a disastrous lack of internet, which stopped me from uploading this chapter. So everything's still in action so let's read on. There's a surprise in here as well, something a few of you have been asking for. Hope you like it. **

**Chapter 5**

About six hours have gone by now. I must have slept for a total of just an hour at the most after Uncle John came into my room. Dawn has only just seeped through the fabric of the loose curtains, casting shadows. For the remaining past five hours I've just lain here, on the mattress, unable to sleep as my mind focuses towards the death of Mr. Wilson. But now I've given up. My watch reads six-fifteen and it's the earliest I'll be able to get up without Uncle John making a fuss thinking something's wrong.

I carefully slide my bedroom door across the carpet, unsure of any creaks the door could make and alert my presence. I glance across the landing and see Uncle John's door is shut still. He normally gets up at about seven to get ready and be at the surgery for eight-fifteen. I run my hand down the banister as I slowly drop to each step, the living room and first floor landing coming into view. I begin to slow down and my heart beat increases when I hear the shuffling. Someone is here, moving stuff around, just out of my view. The living room door is barely open, just a faint crack.

My right foot is the first to leave the staircase and touch the landing, resulting in a long groan from the floorboards. I hear the person within the room stop, alerted to my presence. Silence betides the whole flat and just when I think they've ignored the noise the living room door is yanked open and Sherlock appears at the entrance, a sleek handgun in the palm of his hand, a silencer attached. I fall back against the stairs and quickly shuffle a few steps away from him.

He looks crazy, deranged even. He looks like he hasn't even been to bed and two nicotine patches are clearly displayed on his arm beneath the crumpled shirt sleeve. It takes a second before he realises I'm not some burglar or psychopathic murderer. He lowers the gun and stares at my face which I'm guessing is showing a lot of terror and fear. He just stands there, tall and lenient as he stares at me, processing everything whilst I'm still spread out over the stairs waiting for my heart rate to lower. At last he speaks.

'Shouldn't you be in bed?' He asks, clearly unaware of the time.

'It's nearly half six.' I manage to murmur. It may be early but there was nothing wrong with being up this early. Sherlock frowns and looks to the clock mounted on the living room wall before comparing it's time with the ticking hands of his own watch.

'So it is.' As if the events from moments before had never occurred, Sherlock spun on his heel and headed back into living room to which I follow him like a shadow. I remain at the doorway as I watch him shuffle through mountains of papered documents on the table just so he could get to his laptop. He ignores me standing there as I watch him type furiously for a few moments before slamming the lid in obvious fury. I step fully into the living room and sit on the sofa and pick up one of the case files of a murder similar to Mr. Wilson's.

'Have you been at this all night?' I ask as I open the file and begin to read. Sherlock doesn't even look up.

'Don't touch anything. I spent an hour ordering everything into a suitable index.' Sherlock murmured as he closed his eyes, still sitting at the table, and resting his chin on his thumbs.

He stays like that for at least twenty minutes as I just sit there, quietly reading the top case files so I don't mess up the 'suitable index'. Eventually Sherlock sighs and turns in his chair to face me in a huff.

'Do you mind? You're being very distracting.'

'I'm not doing anything, I'm reading this file.' I hold up the paper in obvious proof. Sherlock squinted at me.

'You're trying to understand everything all at once and knowing you're doing that is very distracting. Go away and do something your own age, you know, as you are just a _child_. You have a child's mind so act like one.' I know his opinion of me shouldn't bother me but the low opinion of my ability to think is just the last straw. I've been excluded all my life because of my ability to think things through more than anyone else, but to hear that I am incapable of doing just that is too close to home.

'Fine. I don't want to be here anyway. You and Uncle Mycroft forced me to stay here. But I don't need to be here, I don't need you. I never have and never will!' I didn't realise I was shouting this until Uncle John came downstairs from his own room, thinking I'm being murdered. Sherlock remains sitting there, staring into space as he thinks. I turn and storm away, Ignoring Uncle John and pound upstairs and slam my room shut. I'll show him. I can think, I'll crack the case, find the link between the victims and prove Sherlock I am capable just as much as him.

I'll show him.

_XXXXX_

'Go up there and apologise, Sherlock, now.' Trust Uncle John to be the voice of reason. If you needed an audible conscious then Uncle John would fit the role. He's been arguing with Sherlock for the last twenty minutes. They're both in the kitchen now, Sherlock absently making himself tea whilst Uncle John tries explaining that people have feelings.

I've been rooting through my suitcase which Mycroft left me here with and am happy with finding my old rucksack in the bottom. I've stuffed some of my clothes into it as the suitcase is less bulky and noisier. I'm leaving. I'm not stopping here with him. He's had his chance but he's just taking the mick now so I'm going back to Uncle Mycroft's. If they want me to remain here then tough luck. They'll have to bring me back kicking and screaming. And if they succeed I'll just leave again. I can't stand him.

I reach the landing and peer through the door into the kitchen to see Sherlock stirring his drink with a spoon and Uncle John standing there, still trying to get through to him. I turn to leave but something catches my eye. Sherlock left an open file on the coffee table on the murder cases. I glance back into the kitchen and pick my moment to dash into the room and steal the file, tucking it inside my duffle coat. I had quickly glanced and saw the list of murder victims.

Without stopping to read the rest of my file I crawl silently across the landing and head down the stairs of 221B Baker Street and pull the door of the latch, step outside and close the door behind me, both Uncle John and Sherlock oblivious to my departure.

I have no money for the tube, bus or a cab so I end up walking the way back to Uncle Mycroft's. Some adults along the streets have given me funny looks and more than one has shouted after me. Probably as it's a school day and a kid walking around the streets isn't exactly discrete. It takes up to nearly an hour and twenty minutes but I cross London and reach the posh estate where Uncle Mycroft lives and where I have been raised all my life since I was roughly six months old. The front door is locked but thankfully I find my key when my hand fishes around in my pockets. I step into the deserted entrance hall.

Mycroft isn't here. Obviously with a lack of me being here he can spend all hours of the day with his beloved government. Just to make sure I head to his study on the first floor and knock. There's no response but I open the door and stick my head in just to make sure. No. He's gone. At work.

I aimlessly wander through his study, relishing the feeling of being home. But there's a strange dull ache in my chest. I think I sort miss Baker Street. N I don't. I don't want to be anywhere near him. Mrs. Hudson and Uncle John are great, but it's him I can't stand. Why couldn't he just keep on pretending to be dead?

I walk around my Uncle's desk and look out into the back garden, a wide stretch of grass, trees and shrubbery. One lone oak tree sits in the middle of the grassy sea, old and still aging, but still strong enough to hold my old tyre swing. I used to spend hours outside, swing back and forth on it, daydreaming about being either a pirate or an astronaut. Or even a detective. It had always been my best place to think where Uncle Mycroft could keep an eye on me and make sure I don't set something on fire. Again.

I loved that tyre. One of the older butlers from years ago made it for me after I drooped around the house, bored after reading all the books we owned. Mycroft disapproved at first with me coming in all muddy with scraped knees but saw how happy it made me so he allowed it. The tyre had been my younger childhood thinking place, the best place to think about school, work and Sherlock.

I turn away from the tyre and the thoughts of him and glance across Mycroft's desk, which as usual, is unhealthily tidy. All the files are organised and everything is in line, the pens all lined up from shortest to longest and the desk lamp in line with the photo frame holding my year three school picture from nearly two years ago.

I don't know why, but I stepped forward and pulled open the first page of the file on top of the paper pile on Mycroft's desk. There are a list of names of random men and women, all different ages and their names seem faintly familiar. I read on the list and find one name at the bottom. It's my name. Just my first name 'Alex' underlined twice with no indication to a last name or anything but I know it means me. I pull the sheet out of the pile and pull Sherlock's file from beneath my duffle coat. I spread the two pages across the desk and compare the list of names, one types up on the computer with my name hand written on the bottom and the sheet with Sherlock's scrawl, listing the exact same names.

That's when it struck me. These names. I know them. I've always known them. Mr. Wilson was my science teacher. All these other names are old teachers as well. There's Mrs. Lloyd, an old replacement English teacher I had a few months ago. Mr. Davison, the music old music teacher. Then there's Ms. Andrews, the substitute maths teacher we had for a few months whilst our normal teacher was on leave.

That's why Mycroft wrote my name on the bottom of his copy – all these people are connected to _me_. They all taught me at some point in my life. There is a list of at least six different teachers, from my nursery teachers to my most recent teachers, all of them the people who just simply left the school for no other reason. I had always wondered where they went, even broaching the subject to Uncle Mycroft who brushed it off saying how people leave all the time.

Why? All these people were just plain teachers, nothing special about them except they all taught me. They all seemed to have all died the same way as Mr. Wilson, a normally undetectable poison in the system which slowly burns the internal organs of the body, which can easily be cancelled out by introducing a similar substance into the victims system to destroy the person before any serious damage is done. But why? The logical explanation would be the killer needed certain information which only teachers could provide. But none of them were willing to divulge this information.

Mid-thought I hear the seemingly distant sound of the front door opening and closing. Either it's the maid with the shopping or Uncle Mycroft has returned for something. Footsteps are audible, climbing the stairs and heading towards the office, confirming the identity of it being Mycroft. I rush to the door to tell him of my thoughts before backing up. Sherlock thinks I'm incapable of finding out anything, so I'll prove him wrong. Mycroft is heading towards the study so I back up to the window and pull the latch back, giving access to a thick cool winter breeze. I'm only on the first story so it's not much of a drop onto the wide patio. I close my eyes and jump, bending my legs, feeling the wind rush at through my ears and my dark curls before landing painfully on my side onto the patio ground, rolling to shake off the effects.

I pull myself up and gasp in pain. My arm feels funny, and not the good kind. It's either broken or badly sprained. But I still stand up, use my good hand to tuck the two sheets into my coat and run across the patio, across the sea of swirling green grass, knocking into my tyre swing as I run as fast as my nine year old legs can take me until I reach the fence and unlock the gate.

Mycroft would have easily noticed someone has been in his office and it won't take him long to deduct that it was most likely me. When he reaches that conclusion he'll call either Sherlock or Uncle John. I'd much rather it the second. I know I'll be found soon so I make the most of my time as I sprint towards my old school as best I can with a suspected broken arm. It feels like a lifetime ago since I last stepped up the drive to the private school situated on the large playing field were a group of older boys are currently locked in a violent game of rugby and the year one's are drawing a nature scene, the same as I once did. I intend to go to the school office and demand they tell me all they can about the teachers. If they don't then I'll sneak into the computer room and hack into the school server and find out what I can from there on my own.

Only I never get there. I walk across the courtyard, the long way around so no one in the classrooms spots me, which is my big mistake. Along this way nobody can see you, so there is nobody to alert me to the looming figure. I don't even get the chance to call out as the cloth is pushed to my face, muffling my sudden cry of shock. The man grips my struggling shoulder and pins me to the floor and holds the cloth which holds the distinctive smell of chloroform to my face. I inhale in desperate attempts to get some oxygen into my system, only to inhale the solution and for the world to go suddenly black.

_XXXXX_

John hung the phone up and walked back into the living room where Sherlock was pacing the room furiously. 'That was Mycroft,' John said, searching for his coat. 'Someone was in his house and he's pretty certain it was Alex. A sheet is missing from his desk. It had all the victim's names on, the same as the one he took from here. He took what you said to heart now Sherlock and he's out there, determined to prove you wrong.' Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked at John, straight in the eye.

'Well where is he?'

'He doesn't know. He could be anywhere Sherlock, hurt or worse. There's a killer out there and you practically told him to go out there and find them. And knowing Alex, he probably will do.' John spied his coat but before he could pull it on, Sherlock had grabbed his own and his scarf and was already out of the door, hailing a cab on the street.

He climbed into the cab and told the driver just to drive around. When they'd noticed Alex's absence, Sherlock felt something well up inside like when he saw his son at Mycroft's house and run off into darkness, into the unknown. Now Alex was out there again, looking for a killer who might just find Alex first if Sherlock's idea was right. And his ideas were normally always right. This was what he was feeling the new feeling of dread for.

_XXXXX_

Darkness plays before my eyes, as well as brightly coloured lights of old memories as my mind swims in its own thoughts. I keep my eyes shut as the dizziness fades and I become more aware of my surroundings, even with the lack of vision. I can feel rope digging into my stomach and my arms forced uncomfortably around the back of a chair, my injured arm throbbing painfully. I hear voices all around, but one with a distinctive Australian accent. I don't know anyone from Australia which is making this mystery all the more interesting, terrifying and thrilling. All at the same time – messed up but interesting all the same. I decide to open my eyes to be shown a large open plan entrance hall. The door is about twelve meters to my right and there's a grand curving staircase to my left as well as a couple doors leading to who knows where.

I'm seemingly alone in the room until a door behind me, away from my possible sight, opens and a trio of largely built tanned men came in, dressed in black as if extra's from an action film or something. I glance at them and deduct two are hired arms men, obeying the rules of the man in the middle, who was I'm getting is in his mid forties, lived in the Australian outback going by his tan, working for some sort of military or government base going by the state of his suit tie. Used to box going by his physic and still works out in advanced combat. All of that is basically pretty much obvious. What I'm not too sure is the extreme lengths this man will go to judging by the gun which is now situated at my left temple as the man walks around to face me.

'You up now sunshine?' I don't say anything but just give a standard glare as the man smirks before looking to one of the hired lackeys across the room.

'Any word from Robinson yet?' The Australian asked, still holding the gun at my temple.

'Not since before boss. Lost sight of her, gone without a trace.' The Australian grimaced and held the gun a little firmly to my head as he signalled the other lackey over. The man untied the ropes holding me back as he spoke to his boss.

'So she's coming here then?' He was British going by his accent, and kept in the dark a lot judging by his need for information.

'If she knows what's good for herself and the munchkin here.' The Australian grinned and tapped my chin with the gun. Who's 'she'? They refer to her but there's no name. Whoever she is she must have something valuable if they are willing to kill for it. I just don't see how I tie into all of this.

The ropes fall to the floor and I reach and softly grasp my bad arm. The Australian notices this.

'Bad arm?' He pulls a kind voice and I'm stupid enough to momentarily fall for it as I nod. The man nods to the thick set lackey who nods back and grabs my sore arm, ignoring the protests I scream as he bends it the other way and I hear a faint but sickening snap as my arm irrupts in pain. I fall to the marble floor and squeeze back the tears as I know my arm is most defiantly broken now and probably in more than one place.

'Keep going Adam,' Tha Australian said as he casually pulls out a mobile and begins texting, as if getting a nine year old beaten up is a normal occurrence. 'Give him some bruises so she's talk quicker.' The man, Adam, gives me a mighty kick to the gut and many more follow. I can't help but cry out in pain. My screams echo about the building and I sorely hope someone hears them.

'Now there's no need for that.' A soft woman's voice drifts across the room and the beating stops instantly. I squint through my tears to see a woman descending the staircase and judging by the ready stance of the Australian and the lackeys-for-hire, she was the woman they are expecting.

My vision is blurry so I can't make her out properly until she reaches the ground floor and slowly makes her way forwards, ignoring the guns trained on both her and me. That's when she comes into proper focus. She has dark hair, perfectly styled. Dressed in a black dress and heels, she seems unable to run very far if needed. But I focus more on her face. I've seen her face before. I know I have. Mycroft spoke of her a lot less than he did Sherlock when he was supposedly dead. She's Irene Adler, She's my mother.

**Oohh! What's gonna happen next? Bet you can't wait to find out. The next chapter will come faster than this one I promise. Review and I'll see if I can update faster :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys, so last time I left you all on a bit of a cliffhanger! Hope you don't hate me for it but many of you wanted Irene back and it seemed the best way :) yeah I'm evil. Deal with it. So I've had a brilliant day today and I thought 'Why not update?' I've got writers block on my other story so this one is getting all the attention. So shall we see what happens to Alex? Read on!**

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock was still circling around London, looking out the windows of the cab for any sign of Alex anywhere but to know avail when his phone made a noise he'd forgotten it could make. The cab was half way across Tower Bridge when the noise happened. He himself was shocked at the noise, not the sound but what it meant and held. The cabbie however frowned in the rear-view mirror at the noise but Sherlock ignored him as he pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and unlocking it to read the message. It took a few re-reads for the information to sink in before calling to the cabbie to turn around and head back the other way.

_XXXXX_

_The lights were moving. All different colours and people in the darkness were screaming. No, not screaming, they're laughing. They, whoever they are, are enjoying themselves. There are hundreds of voices and I can't make any out for longer than a second. The world spins but begins to slow down and for some reason I can see the likes of a carnival. It's dark and the lights shine like beacons. All the voices have now become physical and I'm pushing my way through a crowd of hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people who have grown into giants whilst I seem to shrink more than ever. I look up to so many faces but none of them are disguisable. _

_I'm lost. I remember. Lost at the fair. I wander off from Uncle John, now I'm lost. I'm only four. And I'm lost. I have no idea where I am or where Uncle John is. Everybody is pushing and shoving and I'm being stamped on. I cry and call out but I can't be heard over someone's music. I push as best as I can, press my hands up against the legs of the giants but it makes no difference. I'm stuck, I'm lost, and I'm alone. _

_I cry and call out for Uncle John or someone I know. Out of the darkness the hands grab me. Strong big hands that pull me out of the depths as a strong hoard of people stomp over the butchered grassy land. The hands are bigger than my waist as they pull me out of the ocean of people before I drown and carry me away. At first I think it is Uncle John as I cling to the man's dark coat before realizing Uncle John doesn't have a long black coat. He's a stranger whoever he is but I don't cry out as he saved me for some reason. I'm carried far from the crowd and we reach the bumper car ring where I became lost. The strong arms are still holding me high of the ground and I stare at the mud, as if captivated. I see the black high heels come into view but I ignore them and continue to look at the mud beneath the man's feet._

_A hand begins running over my dark hair and a woman's voice speaks, probably the owner of the shoes. I can't remember what she said but I remember the voice. Whatever she said was a command and the strong arms that rescued me carefully placed me to the ground. _

_Thankfully this section was clear of giants and I was able to see clearly. There was Uncle John searching frantically. Without a backwards glance at the rescuers I toddled over to the man who was overly relieved. He carried me off and I glanced over his shoulder to the now growing crowd. I only got a brief glimpse of them – that's why I didn't remember or realize. Both of them had been there. Both dark haired, he in his usual suit and purple shirt and she in a tight fitting dark dress. They didn't look like parents but they were. They watched as I was carried off before the crowd swallowed them and I forgot them. _

I'm brought out of the memory with a kick to the gut. Again. The thickest set lackey gave me another for good measure and left me be as the Australian strode over to her. I'm left on the floor, blood running from a cut on my head and dripping to the floor and mixing with dust to create a thicker and more sickening texture. I curl up on my right side and use my good arm to reach up and lightly touch my splintered left arm which throbbed in raging heated pain. It flared when I touched it and I violently winced.

I shift my head and look through the mixture of blood and tears to see he Australian man holing the gun out in front of Irene, tense and wishing for the bullet to be allowed to be released. Whereas she stands there, tall and confident as she looked slowly between him and me.

'You know what we want Miss. Adler. Give us the codes back and we'll forget all this ever happened. Junior over there might leave with a broken arm and a few more bruises but only is he's lucky.' The Australian man sounded trustworthy again but this time I can see through the façade, even if it isn't me he's talking to. I lift my head up more to see around the room but a heavy boot is placed at my temple and holding me down. I realize that's where I have an open cut and the pressure pushes some blood down my face and I close my eyes at the pain, coughing and spluttering.

'You mean these codes?' Irene said as she pulled out a basic looking flash drive from a chain around her neck, which had been concealed, by the top of her dress. The Australian held out his hand but Irene kept a tight hold of the device. The man sighed and nodded his head at the lackey holing me down who grabbed me by the shoulders of my blood stained coat and dragged me up. My whole body just felt limp and the lackey had to use a lot more support to hold me up then he first thought. The toes of my trainers were barely capable to catch up as the man drags me over to the two and holds me up where the Australian grabs my chin and tilts my head side to side.

'He's a good lookin' lad. But he won't be for much longer unless you hand the codes back to Miss Adler.' My head's flopping against my chest but I manage to pull it up right and squint at her. She was just the same as she was at the fair. I would never have remember her if she hadn't been at the fair. I wonder who the other person was. Had that been Sherlock? Had he been there as well?

I squint at Irene who looks back at me, her face seemed to lose a bit of confidence as the strength in my neck gave way and I let my head just flop. I'm just so tired. I just want to sleep, right here, right now. The floor looks pretty comfortable.

'You want the codes back? Maybe next time you shouldn't hand them over to a complete idiot who will talk with a little persuasion. I do know what he liked anyways so it wasn't hard. Next time work on your security.' The Australian sighed through his nose and reached out with his hand again and Irene held the flash drive containing some sort of codes between her thumb and her middle finger. She motioned to hand it over before dropping it on the floor on the last second and crushing it with her heel.

The tanned Aussie stared at the smashed ruins for a few seconds, allowing it to sink in before grabbing his gun and holding the cold weapon at her throat.

'You'll regret that for as long as you live.' The man then turned to me, still barely able to support my own head. 'Just you remember kid, she had the chance to let you leave with just a few bruises but she brought his on you.' He took his eyes of Irene to say this and to nod to the Lackey at the back of the room to come and join in the fun. The Aussie didn't see what was coming next – he turned back to Irene to have his face violently slapped and clawed, just the once for immediate effect. The man froze in shock for just a second but that was enough time for her to pull the gun from his hands and whack the man across the face with the butt of the gun and once on the temple, causing him to fall to the floor in a deep daze.

The two lackeys ditched me on the floor and move over to their boss's assistance but Irene has the gun in her hands and switches it between the two men.

'Away from my son. Now.' She didn't yell but her voice held a demand with bitterness that they didn't wish to challenge. They move away from me and I'm left on the floor in peace. Irene makes the two squat down on their knees just as the door at the back is slammed open. I can't see and don't have enough energy for my usual footstep recognition but I hear a voice that I immediately tag to Sherlock. All my hatred of him from this morning has seeped away and I feel grateful that he's here. I only realize then that both of my parents are together with me in this room. It may not have been the way I dreamed but it was still pretty cool.

I see Irene step closer to the two men who had their hands on their heads, the gun still trained on them both. I hear Sherlock move closer and he crouches down besides me. He tilts his head and looks me in the eye and I can just manage to look back. He places his hand on my bad arm lightly but I still wince and yelp. He withdraws his hand and I see something flash in his eyes. Uncle John told me how Mrs. Hudson had been attacked once before and Sherlock had gone into a rage over it and I'm pretty certain I'm about to witness it first hand right now.

Sherlock stands tall and nearly runs over to the lackeys. He takes the gun from Irene and speaks to her quickly.

'Stay with him.' She nods before talking back.

'Good to see you again Mr. Holmes.' She smiles at him and Sherlock looks at her before checking the bullets within the gun cartridge.

'Don't mess them up too badly. They won't be identifiable.' She lastly said before she walks over to me, lowers to her knees and sits by me, placing her hand on my dark hair and hushing me. I didn't realize till then that I'm silently sobbing.

'I'll try not to.' That's the last thing I hear Sherlock say as I begin fading in and out of consciousness. Its as if when I blink I miss about ten minutes of life. One minute Sherlock has the gun trained over one lackey's head, I blink and the next thing I know the two men are lying unconscious a few feet away and Sherlock was currently holding the Australian man's head besides the door frame and repeatedly slamming the door back against the man's head, oblivious to the man's yells.

I blink once more and the next thing I know the man is being thrown onto a nearby table, which buckles and splinters beneath him. I black out completely then and dose off. I can still hear Sherlock beating the man to a pulp on my behalf and I can still feel Irene's hand stroking my hair and hushing me. I fade out and at last get the sleep I'm craving.

**Another cliffy! And Irene's back! Bet you all can't wait to see where this goes. I'll have the next chapter up soon. Hope you liked it and please review if you did :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys! Thanks going out to everyone who's read this story and reviewed. Had some free time on my hands and decided I would write you all a new chapter as I couldn't resist. It was cruel enough to leave you all on a cliff-hanger last time so I figured I owe you guys. Hope you like it. **

**Chapter 7 **

'_Learn to look after yourself Alex.'_

'_You're weird.'_

_Stop trying to be Sherlock Holmes.'_

'_You're weird.'_

'_Come on then freak.'_

'_You're weird.'_

'_No wonder you don't have any friends.'_

'_You're weird.'_

'_He probably saw what was coming and jumped.'_

The voices are just echoes, I know that. Echoes from years and years ago but that's the thing about echoes, they last a lot longer than the original. They sound like they're underwater, just like my vision seems to be. Everything's fuzzy as people move around me in bright luminous coloured jackets. I then realise they must be from an ambulance or something. Something's clutching at my hand. Something cold and clammy. I try to shake it off but I can't, I can't move, or speak. Just listen.

What happened? It wasn't in my head. Why are there ambulance men all around me telling me to hold on?

Whatever is holding my hand must have seen my eyes (Which are probably unfocused) and squeezed my hand tighter. Judging by the temperature of the hand they'd been outside for a long time. They move into a closer focus as the stretcher is raised and I'm pretty certain it's Uncle John as I know nobody else who wears chain-knitted jumpers. I lose sight of him as my already wavering vision drops a level and everything stretches out of proportion. The doctors in the back of the vehicle suddenly are shouting and running crazy. I don't know why but I want the shouting to stop as my head begins to rattle in pain. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!

I just give up and close my eyes hoping I will drift off and the sound will be muted but closing my eyes just makes them shout louder and someone's prodding my sore arm and it flares up and a scream erupts from my head, starting off imaginary until it breaks into reality. Darkness finally comes and I can no longer hear them shouting my name. At last there's just peace in my mind. Memories of what happened are awoken but I dismiss them, focusing more on sleep. The darkness is peaceful, the darkness is my friend, and in the darkness I'm alone.

_XXXXX_

The dark is comfortable. Or is it reality that is comfortable? It's like a cloud beneath me, but on top something made from a thick scratchy material is smothering me. I try moving but my nerves just ached at the very thought. I try starting off with my arms. I clench my right fist and it worked fine. Ached, but worked. I try my left arm and dread fills me. I can't feel it. I can't move my fingers or my arm. Is it gone? It has hasn't it? I lost my arm. It was so badly damaged that they took it away.

I squeeze my eyes tighter but then dare a risk to see. I slowly open my eyes to the world but immediately close them at the harsh clinical light. An artificial light hangs above me and is shining across the room and my eyes sting at the sheer brightness. I try again, this time slowly. It's still bright but I become accustomed to it and the stinging pain decreases. I glance to my left to see where my left arm should be and just met with white. At first I believe it to be true, that it's gone but it takes me a moment to see the outline of the white cast upon the white sheets. I breathe a sigh of relief which must be audible. A chair besides me scrapes back and Sherlock's face comes into focus in an instance.

I tilt my head and try to pull myself up but he pushes down lightly on my right shoulder but I ignore it and pull myself up into a sitting position.

'You need to be careful. You've been asleep for nearly four weeks.' Sherlock says as he sits on the foot of my bed. I squint my eyes in shock. Four weeks? I haven't slept properly for a long time and now I sleep for weeks at a time. I try to talk back, to ask what happened but my throat is painfully raw and there's something lodged in it. Attempting to talk was a mistake as the oxygen tube in my throat causes me to start violently coughing and Sherlock hits me on the back and helps me pull the tube out. I take my first breath of regular oxygen and feel physically sick. I lean over and close my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing back to normal as Sherlock awkwardly pats me on the back, telling me to take it easy.

The sickness passes and I manage to look up again and stare at him. I remember everything now. From the morning where my hatred of him increased to when I met her, my mother. Those men had beaten me to a pulp and Sherlock came along, seen how bad of a state I had been in and returned the favour by beating the Australian and his lackeys to a pulp. I look over to him and see the mess he's in. It's like we're opposites, I've slept for four weeks and he seems not to have had any sleep what so ever. We continue to look at each other, both clearly thinking about what happened.

'Alex, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things to you. I-' I cut Sherlock off by grabbing his shirt and hugging him. I wrap my arms around his neck and ignore the irritation of the IV in my right and the heaviness of my plastered left arm. I clutch as he slowly tries to pry me off, but realising I'm holding tight he slowly wraps his own arms around me and hugs me back. He's awkward at this as he doesn't know what to do or rather what to feel but he knows I'm not letting go so he continues to hold me. The door to the room opens but I ignore it, not caring who it is.

It's a Doctor. The said doctor tries to pry me off Sherlock but I clutch at him tighter. Sherlock himself talks to me, telling me to let go. He doesn't shout instead he's calm about it as I slowly let go and sit back down in bed. The doctor is rather grumpy at me moving so quickly after being awake for a matter of minutes but seems happy with how fast my motor reflexes have awoken as well. He says most of my arm has healed whilst I've been sleeping and speaks of internal injuries, cuts and bruises mostly healed up. He says how I'll have to remain here for a few more days, a week at the most just so they can check for any complications but surprisingly Sherlock is against it. Claiming I need to go home. When he said 'home' for once I didn't think of Uncle Mycroft's, instead I thought of 221B Baker Street.

The doctor is reluctant but Sherlock convinces the man, with a few choice insults through in, and eventually the doctor agrees, rather begrudgingly. As long as I stay in for the night and take regular medication he accepted me going home. He leaves me and Sherlock alone and a certain topic comes into my mind.

'Where is she?' I croak and Sherlock acts dumb which doesn't suit him at all.

'Who?' I frown at him.

'Irene. My mother.' Sherlock turns his head away at the subject but reluctantly speaks.

'She's gone. Gone back to where ever she was before.' I sit there letting it sink in. She left. She left me again. But I linger on the topic. She cares. That Australian knew killing people who were so closely linked with me would get her attention. The fact that she knew who those people were and that they were linked to me makes me smile slightly. She's been watching. Just as Sherlock had, she's been watching me.

'Were you at the fair?' I bluntly blurt out, re-gaining Sherlock's attention. 'When I was four, I was lost. Someone caught me before I was trampled. Two people. It was both of you wasn't it?' Sherlock stares at me, deducing how I could have remembered it before speaking.

'We both kept an eye on you most times. I wasn't entirely confident with Mycroft raising you. I would have preferred John but he seemed to do a reasonable good job.' I realise at this moment Sherlock still felt as if it was his entire fault I was hurt so I decided to ask more questions which have plagued me for years on end, the questions Uncle Mycroft nor Uncle John ever felt complied to answer.

'Then why was I left with Mycroft instead of John?' Sherlock knew that I was taking the chance to have my questions answered but didn't stop.

'When you were born, I was already 'dead' as was your mother. She did her best for six months but she isn't exactly mother material so she told me Mycroft would be best as you would turn out a true Holmes and Mycroft could provide you with everything you could need, not that she never doubted John couldn't.'

'You _both_ decided where I would go? You mean you were there when I was little?' Sherlock sighed but continued.

'I was there when you were born. I've always known about you. That's why I stayed 'dead' for so long, so the heated attention you got when you first arrived on Mycroft's door would die down before I came back.' Sherlock paused before continuing with his explanation.

'John did tell me about you after I came back, after he stopped punching me, but I told him I already knew. I suppose he suspected that if I really was alive all this time then I must have been watching and seen you at some point. When Irene couldn't handle motherhood much more she suggested she give you to my brother. I took convincing but I agreed. We've both kept an eye on you as you seem to have a habit of wandering off at dangerous times.' I think back to all the times where I was either alone or in danger.

I remember the time I was wandering about London when I was five. I had just walked out the door and walked down plenty of streets until I was lost. I wasn't paying attention and walked into the road. I woman's hand reached out and pulled me back just as a car sped past. When I looked round she'd gone.

I remember being seven and being alone at the park. Uncle John had been supposed to take me but he got called away so I went by myself. I had sat on a swing and had nobody to push me. Suddenly the swing started to move back and forth as someone began to push me. I thought it was Uncle John and just laughed, not turning around but after five minutes the swinging slowed down and when I turned to see, nobody was there. I had run home but just forgot about it.

I sat in silence as I thought of everything that had happened. They had both always been there. I had always wanted them there and they had been I just never realised it.

'By the way,' Sherlock said as he stood up and pulled his black suit jacket over his crumpled grey shirt. 'Good job on that maths final you did when you were eight. You just need to work on Pythagoras and you would have won.' I think back to the event and smile, now knowing Sherlock was in the crowd watching me. I snap out of the day dream and see him pulling on his long black coat.

'Don't go!' I say and he turns to me as he popped his collar up. He gave me a quizzing look and I thought he was just going to walk out of the door without a backwards glance but instead, much to both our surprise, he sat back down in the chair besides my bed where he had been for the past four weeks and said he'd stay there with me until I fell asleep. How he knew I was tired before me I don't know.

I bury back beneath the sheets and close my eyes. Sherlock is still sitting there, I can hear him breathing. I reach out with my good arm and clutch his hand. I can tell it shocked him just as much as the hug but he doesn't try to force me off. Instead he remains there, clutching my hand back just as equally tight until I drift off.

_XXXXX_

The next morning I had nurses fawning over me. Apparently they thought I was adorable and thought it was horrific what I went through. They don't know what really happened to me though. They seem to think I was hit by an oncoming lorry and knocked out. I suppose it was easier than explaining the truth. I was given a healthy breakfast and apparently Sherlock had left me some of my clothes which I'm grateful for as these hospital pyjama's itch like crazy. I pull open the bag and find a thick navy jumper which I've never seen before. There's a note inside from Uncle John and apparently Mrs. Hudson knitted it for me. I root in the bag and find my own jeans and trainers. I appreciate the jumper Mrs. Hudson made for me but I have a suspicion John had to convince her not to knit me a hat, gloves and many other things.

It's awkward getting dressed with a thick heavy cast and my arm begins aching very quickly if I use it too much but I manage to get dressed eventually. The door opens to the relatively empty ward which I've stayed in and I look up, hoping it's either Sherlock, Uncle John or even Uncle Mycroft but I hope it's Sherlock more. But it's none of them instead it's the doctor from the previous night. He tells me to stand up as he checks my nerves system as there is a chance everything is damaged from the beating I got. He pricked various limbs, my shoulder and the available palm of my right hand with a sterile needle. All of the little pinpricks caused me to flinch and the doctor seems relatively happy with everything, just not the idea of me going home so early but Sherlock had convinced him.

I sit back down on the edge of the bed and use my good arm to straighten out my hair and gain a shock when my hand touches my head. There's a mirror across the ward and when I look in I see I no longer have thick dark curls, the same as Sherlock, but instead I have straight hair cut short. There was still plenty of it but it seems the doctor had to cut it away to stitch the wound on the side of my forehead. I'm not too used to it and tug on the hair a little. It's still dark but all the curliness of it has disappeared.

Eventually the ward opens and Sherlock sweeps up in his long black coat. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed again by this time and when I see him I jump down, run and hug him again. Sherlock still isn't used to this but hugs me back, this time less awkwardly.

'You ready?' I nod and reach for my cleaned duffle coat and try to pull it on but my cast gets caught in the sleeve. Sherlock see's me struggling and helps me pull it on. Now there's something I would never have imagined. He even buttoned it up for me. Once ready I clutch at his hand and we walk out of the ward, out of the hospital onto the main street. We walked down at least two streets and I began to get tired as I haven't walked so far after sleeping for nearly four weeks. We can't find a cab so Sherlock does something I never thought he'd do and lifted me up onto his back for the remainder of the street until we found a cab. I clutched at his dark curls and looked about the street, the cool wind from the steel coloured clouds whips at my face. Sherlock hails a cab at last and we ride in the typical London car for the rest of the journey back to Baker Street.

We were about three streets away when I asked Sherlock a question that bugged me through the night.

'Will I ever see her again?' I look up to the man and he glances at me before looking straight ahead, obtaining his usual air of mystery.

'I don't know. I didn't even know you'd meet her at this time. But she obviously annoyed some people enough for them to decide to get her attention through you.' I can tell her departure has misplaced him a fair bit.

'What did she even do in the first place? She had a flash drive which had codes or something on them. They must be important if they really wanted them back that badly.' Sherlock remained silent for a few minutes and I assume he's thinking. Eventually he speaks.

'I don't know what the codes were but I would like to find out what was important enough for them to think hurting you was necessary.' We sat in silence for the rest of the journey back home and I'm pretty sure we're both thinking the same thing – what had been on that flash drive?

**There we go, another chapter done and dusted. I hope you guys liked it. I thought the thing between Alex and Sherlock was adorable. For more you shall all have to wait for the next chapter. Like I said I hoped you all enjoyed it and if you did I wouldn't mind hearing about it. Until the next time. **


	8. Chapter 8

**The Junior Consulting Detective **

**Hey guys! Sorry for the longer waiting time. I hope you liked the last chapter with Alex and Sherlock – I thought it was cute :) So will Irene return? What about the Flash-drive? What was on it? You shall find out soon do not worry. **

**Chapter 8 **

To be back at 221B Baker Street, I never thought I'd be happy about. But as I scale the stairs alongside Sherlock, I realise that I'll probably be happier nowhere else. He pushes open the door into the front room where a small gathering had formed inside the cluttered room. As soon as the five pairs of eyes saw me voices rose and I was surrounded. Mrs. Hudson called me a 'silly boy' for running off but gave me a long tight hug. The old lady smiled warmly and told me how she was cooking something special for me returning home and dashed into the kitchen where a delicious smell was wafting from.

Uncle John came forward and picked me up and hugged me just as tight as Mrs. Hudson had. 'You gave us a real scare Alex. Never run off like that again, alright?' I thought you were meant to be a smart one?' Uncle John smiled and ruffled my shorter hair. I smiled from my high up position in Uncle John's arms and I looked over at the two remaining people – Lestrade, Molly Hooper and Uncle Mycroft. Uncle John lets me down and Lestrade smiles and pats me on the back, reassuring me that the Australian was in custody the second he came out of his coma. I glance at Sherlock who conveniently turns away. I look over to Molly who smiles and pulls out a black marker pen and asks if I would like something drawn on my cast. I nod eagerly and look up to Uncle Mycroft last, who is leaning on his umbrella as usual.

'You certainly are a Holmes.' Mycroft bestowed the words and I can't resist smiling up at him. Mycroft raises a brow but gives that little knowing smirk with a tilt of his head. You don't see him smile so much unless it's a classic Holmes sarcastic one but I'm pretty certain it's genuine.

'Do you still wish to come back and live with me Alex?' Now he asks the question which I had so sorely wanted him to. I look across the room where Sherlock is talking to Uncle John and he catches my eye for a matter of seconds so fast it may have been a trick of the light. I look back up to Uncle Mycroft and shake my head. He nods at me and I sit on the sofa besides Molly who asks me what I would like on my cast.

_XXXXX_

'Bored. So bored.' I mutter as I slump further and further down the chair until I'm displayed out across the floor like some sort of rug wearing pyjamas. I've been out of hospital a week now and it's safe to say all my internal injuries have healed, apart from my arm, so I'm up to running around but Uncle John still says I should take it easy. It doesn't stop me sliding down the stairs on a kitchen tray though as it's the closest thing I do to act my age. It makes Sherlock grin but Uncle John frets like crazy.

Mrs. Hudson's looking after me this morning as Uncle John's at the surgery for the morning and Sherlock's out on case which apparently involves a chipmunk, a man who thinks he's the Queen and a rather nasty corpse floating along the Thames. Yeah, weird. But that's life at 221B.

I hear the front door opening and I jump up expecting it to be Sherlock but only Uncle John comes up the stairs with a carrier bag and a smile on his face. I sit up in a crossed leg position and trace the list of constellations written on my cast.

'Either you've got a date with the receptionist or you've done something I won't like but you like the sound of.' I say as he heads to the fridge to get milk for a coffee. I hear his cry of disgust and the sound of the fridge door slamming. Uncle John comes back into the living room with a look like he's trying to make sense of something he just can't.

'There's a Ferret. A frozen Ferret in the fridge. A bloody Ferret!' I look up from the carpet.

'Well of course, Mrs. Hudson didn't like it in her fridge so Michael had to stay in ours.' John just looked at me like I'm crazy and looked back to the fridge.

'A Ferret?'

'Of course, Sherlock said I had to learn so he suggested I see how long it takes for animal brains to decompose. Poor Michael fell from a window and sort of surfed from a car onto a wall. It was the perfect opportunity.'

'Is this what you do when we're not here, go all Holmes.'

'Well I am a Holmes aren't I?'

'You got that right. We need to buy a new fridge I'm not sharing my food space with a ferret.'

'Michael.' I call as I pull a nearby book up and read.

'Michael then, I'm not sharing the place where I store food with Michael or any other thing that was once living.'

'Technically you're already sharing a fridge with things tha-' I shut up at the look on John face as he pulls the milk out, avoiding Michael's eyes and begins to make himself a coffee.

The door downstairs opens again and this time Sherlock bounds up the stairs with a satisfied look on his face.

'Case solved then?' John asks as he sips his coffee, careful not to look in the direction of the fridge.

'Naturally. Transparent.' Sherlock puffs as he sits at his Laptop and updates his website.

'I said it was the fisherman.' I say as I walk over in my pyjamas to watch him type.

'Yes, but you forgot the whole thing with the nest the chipmunk made in the corpse which lead us to the killer fisherman.'

John looks between us both as if we both escaped from the lunatic asylum. He shakes his head before reaching over his armchair for the carrier bag he brought up with him. Sherlock turns his head slightly to look before returning to the laptop.

'I said no, John.'

'About what?' I ask and look between them both. Uncle John hasn't even emptied the bag yet but Sherlock knows. I think I have an idea what it is and I'm right. John called me open and pulled out a pale blue shirt and held it up against my back and held up a pair of grey shorts. A school uniform.

'Oh no.' I mutter. I knew Uncle John has been trying to convince Sherlock to let me go to school but Sherlock said he preferred me to learn from what he knew and from the cases Lestrade occasionally dished up for us. After the incident with the Australian I haven't been allowed outside until he'd woken up rather disorientated and deported home and even then it's difficult just getting the still dead Sherlock to crime scenes, never mind me.

'I already said he's not going to school to learn pointless things.' Sherlock stated as he closed the laptop screen.

'He needs to Sherlock; it's the law, one of many.'

'Urh, laws, laws are boring.' Sherlock said as he opened the fridge for the milk, unfazed by Michael's glassy eyes watching him.

'He needs education Sherlock if he wants to get anywhere. Learning about a nest of chipmunks in a dead body isn't a great way for him to get a job in the future.' Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'Well he's not going. I'm his father and I can home-school him if I wish to.' At this John smiled.

'Well I had a conversation with Mycroft,' Oh god that can't be good. Mycroft can sort anything out. 'And he's sighed Alex up at the local Primary. It's only a few streets away and he can get changed into the uniform and have a half day today and start properly tomorrow.' I stare at John before looking at Sherlock for support, but seems to have retreated within his own mind and I'm close to screaming for him to take me with him.

'Fine.' Sherlock says at last and turns back to his computer. John nodded and handed me the uniform and I don't take it.

'I'm not going to a school with a load of idiots who are so easily amused it's not even funny.' John stared at me and it was like a challenge but he threatened to dress me himself and drag me there kicking and screaming which wouldn't be a good idea as he would and if he forced me to school and showed the other children how much I didn't want to be there they'd make it worse for me.

I snatch the uniform and head upstairs to get changed. At least this school doesn't make me wear suspenders like my last.

_XXXXX_

I'm back in five minutes and John's ready to take me to school. School. I despise it after everything I went through at my old one where the high class raised boys thought they were higher and mightier than anyone. Sherlock's still typing at his computer and he seems stuck.

'Aren't you going to come?' I ask as I shoulder my old rucksack holding my old school equipment.

'I'll pick you up later. I'm waiting for a phone call.' I nearly say the point of a mobile phone is that it is mobile, hence the title but John says we're running late and I don't have a chance to push it as I'm pulled down stairs.

Outside on Baker Street, the watery sunlight of the early afternoon peaked through the dirty clouds and shined. I breathed in the air which is cold in the back of my throat and I follow Uncle John down the road in my trainers and new school uniform.

My rucksack feels unusually heavy as I head towards the school and the playing yard appears, plenty of kids running around, screaming and pushing each other. The phone in John's pocket bleeps and from the tone of his sigh I know he needs to go back to the Surgery for something. I take the opportunity.

'You go on, I can walk the rest of the way, and it's only there.' I point out the short distance to emphasize my point. John gives me a knowing glance.

'I'm not as stupid as you think I am Alex. I'm taking you right up to the office.' I sigh and trail after him.

'I don't think you're stupid.' I mutter and follow him through the gate and in the open door where kids were flooding out, some giving me an odd look. John's phone bleeped again, this time the message seemed more urgent. He looked at the glass door of the office and at me.

'Right I have to go, just knock on there and tell them your name. Don't run off Alex.' He gives me a hug before pulling out his phone as he left. I watch as he walks across the yard and out onto the busy main road. Once sure he's gone I run. I leave the entrance hall, run across the yard, my bag bumping against my bag and push through the gates, not caring if anyone saw me. I leave the school yard and step onto the street which is beginning to thicken as lunch hour approaches. I end up squished and I fear my still broken arm will get hurt so I push past a crowd of chatting business men and lean up against the railing, the sounds of London spinning around me.

'Definitely a Holmes if you feel that school is not necessary for you.' The woman's voice reaches my ear and I turn, still clutching the chipped railing as I turn to face her. Hair perfectly styled, lips blood red and dressed sorely in black amongst the moving crowd of colours. Irene was smiling as I gaped at her. She reached out and tapped my chin up to close my gaping mouth.

'You haven't changed. You'd stare like that at anything that interested you when you were tiny.' She stood there as if it was the simplest of things as I stare up at her, the sounds and movement of London long forgotten as it fades into a blur as I focus on her. She just smiles and tilts her head. Before I realised what happened I had my arms around he and she was stroking my hair as she had when Sherlock took revenge of sorts.

'Look at you, you certainly have grown but lost all your curls, just like Sherlock's they were.' I cling to her, scared she's going to leave again. She pulls away and holds my face.

'Now you listen to me Alexander Hamish Holmes. I want you to go back in that school and stay safe. Show them what Alex Holmes can do.' I stare up at her and flashes of the attack came back.

'What was on that flash drive? It was really important codes for something. Weaponry? Or something that could blow a hole in the world maybe?' Irene just smiled at me.

'With a voice like that I could mistake you for thirty, not nine. You're definitely a Holmes. And don't worry about the codes. Those people won't dare come after you for them like that ever again, I'm certain Sherlock sent them the right sort of message.' She turned my head to look at the school where the teacher on playtime duty was walking towards us. 'Now go in there and be a Holmes.' She kissed my head and left. I watched her disappear into the crowds and the teacher came out of the gate.

'What do you think you're doing? Get back inside now.' I follow the teacher back through the gates and ignore the stares from the other children as I'm escorted inside and told to stand outside the office which the teacher went into and returned with the obvious headteacher.

'Ah, you must be Alex Holmes.' The man smiled at me like I'm a two year old and wagged his finger. 'Rule one here, never leave the gate unless with a teacher or at home time. Ok?' I resist the urge to tell him to lose the finger and I'm barely capable of asking how badly his marriage seems to be going in at the moment, as the pressure marks in the palms of his hands clearly tell me.

'Right then Alex,' The head clearly mistook my silence as compliance for the rules. 'Miss Jason here will take you into the playground for the remaining twenty minutes then you'll go to your classroom for afternoon lessons. I hope you enjoy your day.' The head must have repeated this a thousand times judging by his dull tone as he rolled on before heading back into his office. I follow Miss Jason back outside to the noisy area where she ran off immediately to help the boy who had been pushed over and scraped his knee.

I wander aimlessly around the playground, watching one group trade battered and dog eared cards with mythical creaters on, watched the big lads of the year play football, watched the girls making daisy chains in the grassy and watched the small huddle in the furthest corner looking nervously at Miss Jason as they showed off the items which they clearly weren't allowed, one of which was a cigarette lighter. They seemed the type that would make your life miserable for being different. I stay well clear and sit down on the cold gravel ground besides the high black cage fencing, separating the rest of London from us. My eyes sought after one person but by now she's long gone.

I sit there and the other children pay me no attention. Clearly new pupils are not uncommon. I hold onto one bar and watch people pass. Soon my solitude is interrupted by a boy about my own age. He's the one who had been pushed. He had bronze locks cut rather short and a pale face with clear green eyes. He picked at the already clotted cut, wincing at the pain. I glance over him and get the impression he's pushed around a lot as he's a sort of drifter and a bit socially awkward. He doesn't say anything as he rocks on the gravel, clutching his knees. This must be his usual spot but he's scared I'll push him over too.

'What's your name?' I ask. The bronze haired boy is startled at me making a conversation with him.

'What?'

'I asked your name.'

'Oh. It's Joey. Joey Hunter.' I extend my hand and Joey looks at it wearily but he finally shakes it.

'What's yours?' He asks nervously, not sure if it's the right thing to do.

'Alex Holmes.' Joey seems more comfortable with the introduction and pulls out a small paper bag from his shorts. He's not fat but he's tubbier than the other boys and me and the sweets must be the cause. He picks a piece of toffee out and offers me the packet. I also take a piece and we share the toffee for the rest of the break, watching the other run around. I think about checking around me for any sights of violent Australians or my mother but Joey starts talking and I get absorbed into the conversation as he asks about my broken arm and talks about the bones of the human body which he learnt from a book he likes to read instead of act like an idiot. He seems generally smart and I think I'm going to get on well with him.

**Another chapter done. So Alex got a chance to talk to Irene at last. Don't worry; there shall be more Sherlock and action in the next chapter. If you have a moment please take it to review and tell me what you thought of this story. Thanks :D**


	9. Chapter 9

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi everyone! Had some great reviews on the last chapter and I was so happy I decided to write you all a new one as I am so kind. So last time Alex met and spoke to his mother, Irene Adler. I'm sort of going to build on that. Thanks to '****i luv milarion****' who gave me the idea for the flashbacks and a thanks to all of you for reading and reviewing. **

**Chapter 9 **

When I lived with my Uncle Mycroft, Christmas wasn't an overly exaggerated thing. The most we ever had as far as I can remember is the tree in the main room, but I think he only started that after I first arrived in his life. He'd always work Christmas morning so I'd open my presents on Christmas Eve night. Most other boys would think that lucky but it's just a few hours earlier. Mycroft would sit in his armchair beside the fire, hand-writing a report or having a tumbler of whisky for the festive season as I opened the presents which were mostly books and scientific equipment as I don't think I've asked for toys since I was seven – they were mostly for experiments anyway.

But Christmas at 221B seems to be totally different and I'm looking forward to it. It's still only early December and I'm still at school but already Mrs. Hudson and Uncle John have decorated all floors and windows so the overpowering colours of tinsel could burn your eyes when they caught the light. We've gotten used to the routine of the sky darkening early and taking longer for the sun to rise in the morning so the lamps are softly glowing about the living room as I read a book, sat crossed legged on the sofa in my uniform whilst Uncle John watches the telly quietly before he heads off for work and Sherlock sits at the table with his laptop open before him, responding to an email.

The distant smell of cooking mince pies wafts up the stairs from the sandwich shop and all seems crisp and fresh in the new morning. I've got ten minutes before I have to be at school so I close my book, pull on my trainers and pick up my rucksack and duffle coat. Sherlock checks the time and shuts the lid of his computer before picking up his own scarf.

It's been nearly two months since I spoke to her, my mother, and I haven't said a word. But I think Sherlock knows. He asked if anything 'interesting' happened on my first day of school and I just shrugged, in case he didn't know because I know her absence bothers him.

School's relatively easy. Joey's my main friend as he's the only one who has more than half a brain. At least we don't get bullied. Before I came Joey was repeatedly the victim but after an older boy wanted to push him around I told him to back off, which was a shock and something new to him that confused him so he left Joey alone. The other boys are ok, idiots, but ok. I seem to have gained a reputation at school as well. There was a childish incident in the classroom, one accusing the other of theft. They'd screamed at each other and the noise was so frustrating that I shouted out for them to shut up and how it was clearly the sour-faced girl on the nearest table as she was silently sniggering with her friend. After that many of the others have come to me to solve things or just to ask random questions. And I mean random. Someone asked if it was true the teachers slept in the school.

My teacher, Mr. James, seems to be one of the rare teachers who see me with the intelligence equal to his. As the others have been cutting up coloured paper to make Santa and his sleigh I've been slipped a few GCSE papers to practise out which has given me a challenge.

'_A little Christmas present,_' Mr. James had said last week as he handed me some more maths papers which lit my face up.

I say goodbye to Uncle John as we both descend the stairs and head out into the crisp bone-chilling December air. Snow has fallen during the night and the white ice crunches beneath my trainers. Sherlock and I walk down the streets in silence. The only way to know we're together is the fact I keep reaching out to grab his hand as I slip in the snow. An icy patch is covered beneath a thin layer of snow and my trainer unsuspecting goes flying from beneath me, but luckily Sherlock catches me before I fall and need to go back to hospital to put my cast back on.

'Thanks.' I say as I still hold his hand as we pass some joggers, their sportswear crunching the snow. Sherlock smiles as we get onto the road where my school is, the sounds of little kids pelting snowballs and laughing reaches my ears. We stop at the gate and Sherlock lets go of my hand as he stares into space.

'What's wrong?' I ask. He's been like this for a while, ever since the first Christmas advert appeared on telly to be precise. Before that he was ok, he was good. He talked to me, showed me past cases and data and let me grow some bacteria in a Petri-Dish, as it's easier than looking after a goldfish apparently – I named it Simon. I've followed him on his latest cases and worked some out and been proven to be correct. I always smiled as I proved to be just as clever as him.

'Hello?' I stretch up and wave my hand in front of his face. He slowly comes out his trance and looks at the children across the play ground, then at me and lastly around at all the parents kissing and waving their children away for another day at school.

'Nothing. I'll pick you up later.' He turns to leave but I clutch at his coat to hold him back. One mother nearer the gate coos as if I don't want him to leave me.

'What's wrong, you've been like this for ages. Is it the Spoon case? It's a tough one but I think we're gonna get it soon.' Sherlock looks at me, as if assessing me as he does to so many others.

'Mycroft's coming over tonight. There are things we need to...discuss.' He puts blandly.

'What 'things' do we need to 'discuss'?' I say and Sherlock just absently pats my head and walks off. I watch him disappear into the crowd, absorbed by the dense population of London. I think why Mycroft could be coming over as I cross the yard, narrowly missing several snowballs. Whatever's wrong with him has been bugging him for a while now, we've all noticed it as he spends more time in his 'mind-palace' and composing on his violin.

I push open the door and stamp my feet on the mat before hanging up my duffle coat on my peg and heading into my classroom. Joey's the only one there, finishing up his homework. He smiles at me before bending over his homework once more.

'What did you get for question six?' Joey mumbled as he pushed his new glasses up his nose. 'The one about the chapter where Ben ran away? What does it symbolise?'

'I don't know, I saw the questions and cooked it with dinner in the oven.' Joey gaped up at me.

'Didn't your dad mind?' I tilt my head in a Holmes fashion as I sit down.

'I told you about Sherlock enough times for you to know he wouldn't have cooked it. He would have fried it.' Joey grinned at me.

'Your dad sounds so cool. Next time I come to tea will I meet him? You're Uncle John is cool as well but if your dad's like you then it must be weird but funny having two of you so similar in the room together.' I grin at Joey before lifting my desk to retrieve my GCSE History paper to give to Mr. James to mark when I see it. It's thin but wide. Wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a thin piece of green ribbon. There's no label with neither the receivers name nor the sender. I pull it out and show it to Joey.

'What's this?' I ask and he shrugs.

'A present, but from whom? No name tag?'

'No, nothing.' Joey drops his pen at this and watches as I pulled the wrapping paper apart, expecting to find a small box with maybe A-Level papers from Mr. James, wrapped as a festive joke or something. The box is plain white with nothing on it. I pull off the lid and find a sleek black Tablet within. Joey gapes at it as a computer lover would do.

'Wow! That's brand new! And they haven't even come out here yet, only in America! It must have cost a whole bank.' Joey exclaimed in a typical child's voice of wonder and awe. I can't help but stare as well. It was one of many with a brand name etched in the back with the small logo which indicated the model to be the best and suitable for work, such as equations, scientific problems, everything to challenge me.

'Who sent it? Is there a card or something?' I shake my head as I tip the box up. This definitely isn't from Mr. James; it probably cost more than the bike he rides in on. I turn the Tablet on to investigate, to see if there is any indication to who sent me this but I am forced to hide the device within my desk as the bell rings and many others flood in, all red in the face from the cold.

Mr. James enters five minutes later and drops some paper off on my desk.

'Little treat for you there Alex, toughest you'll get right now. I showed some of your work to my friends at the Collage and they hardly believe a kid of your age gets this stuff.' I smile weakly as he moves to the front of the class to his desk beneath the bright rainbow coloured display of youth to take the register. In twenty minutes time, everyone is answering the questions they have been given on the Second World War. The room is a buzz of low chatter as everyone does their work and once certain that nobody is watching me, I slid me desk open and pull out the Tablet and place it on my lap. I turn to look at Joey opposite me but he's transfixed by the spelling errors in his written work. I switch the Tablet on myself and watch it load up onto a rather bright screen filled with coloured applications, all labelled a different subject. I tap on a few and find plenty of formulas to work out and pages for me to write my own. The device even has internet connection, I realise as I scan through the settings.

I can't keep my mouth form hanging open as I search through the device and if I'm not careful someone will notice my estranged expression.

One of the apps in the row is bouncing on screen, as if '_click me!' _I tap on the small picture of a camera with my middle finger and a page loads up, showing at least a hundred small photos. I tap on the first one and it enlarges, and I swear my jaw must nearly have unhinged with how far it dropped. There, in the picture, on screen, is my mother. Irene Adler is pictured on the screen holding a small bundle of blue blankets. I realize it's me. The bundle of blue blankets with a small pick face showing is me. Warmth fills all my fibres as I flick to the next image. It must have been taken a few months later. A tired but small smiling Irene is there again, holding a much bigger baby on her lap, dressed in a small blue playsuit. Tufts of brown hair already curling are on top of my head in this one, my eyes are now the Holmes green as I stare up at my mother, gaping as she said I used to do. In the picture Irene and I are facing away from a window and in the photo, the window is showing a heighted large city skyline, ablaze with lights in the night.

My heart races when I flick to the next photo. It's Sherlock. He's in the picture holding me whilst I'm sleeping. He looks close to sleep himself as he holds the baby form of me close to his chest on a small sofa in the same apartment room. There are plenty of more pictures on the Tablet but Joey has noticed I've got it out and is leaning over. He may be my best friend but this is my past, and it's mine I think as I lock the Tablet and slip it back in my desk, picked up the GCSE papers and begin scribbling, the photo's forever burned behind my eyes.

_XXXXX_

The final bell rings and I pick up my things, quickly pack up the Tablet in my bag and race out of the classroom before anyone can look twice. I used to do this; but it feels like years ago now. I would race out of the room and head to the rooftop of St. Bart's. But now I don't think I'll ever set foot up there again I think as I race out the door, the first to leave and run to the gates where Sherlock is waiting. He just pocketed his phone when I reach him and hug him round the middle, knocking him back a bit. He frowns at me but it leaves as soon as it was there. He hesitates a bit as if it's an effort, but finally extends his hand and I take it, telling him how I had something great to tell him but it would have to wait until back home. I don't know if he's in contact with Irene so this could lead to who knows what but I want to show him the pictures and ask questions.

He's silent again as we walk home. He slots the key into the black door labelled 221B and I hear voices upstairs and realize I can show Uncle John as well. I pound upstairs and push open the door to see Uncle John and Uncle Mycroft in a heated discussion, which halted the second I entered the room with a grin on his face. Maybe I'll save the pictures until after Uncle Mycroft has left as Sherlock had said there are important things to discuss. I head over to Uncle Mycroft and hug him. I'm just too happy and I think its creeping people out. Mycroft pats me on the back before telling me to sit down. Sherlock's in the room now, standing stationery at the door.

I shed my duffle coat and pull my trainers off and sit in Sherlock's chair beside the crackling fire. Mycroft is in John's chair, looking straight at me with a serious look on his face. _The _serious look and I know that something bad has happened or is going to. And I don't think it's to do with the slightly obvious site that tells us he's cheated on his diet again.

I look up to Sherlock to ask him what's going on but he's not there, gone. He does that a lot, just wanders off but he said this was important, so why has he gone?

'Alex.' Mycroft sighs through his nose as he looks at me. 'We've been talking...and discussed your living arrangements.' I think a puzzled look has latched itself onto my face now. Mycroft had asked where I wanted to stay the last time he was here and I told him I wanted to stay at 221B, so why is he dragging this up now? Nearly two months later? Then it hits me.

'Wait...' I say and Mycroft knows I've got it.

'We think it best if you return living with me for the foreseeable future, Alex.' I look over to Uncle John who's looking down and sorely depressed.

'Is this because I left Michael in the fridge again? I promise I won't do it anymore.' I plead with Uncle John in Sherlock's absence and I'm pretty sure I finally sound like my age at last, a nine year old who doesn't want to go.

'I...I don't want you to go Alex. But Sherlock,' John gulped. 'He thinks its best you go back to Mycroft's.' I spin my head between the two of them fast as my hearing seems to fade. I stare at the carpet as Mycroft says something to John and a hand taps my shoulder. I don't seem to move so they lightly shake it. I snap. I scream and shout as Uncle Mycroft tugs me down the stairs. I don't yell at him, or Uncle John, or Mrs Hudson who's shocked at the bottom of the stairs, instead I shout at him, he who's hiding from me, predicting how I'd react to him sending me away. I scream even when we're outside. Mycroft and John told me to calm down as they escorted me to the sleek motor vehicle, which belongs to Mycroft, parked elegantly on the side of the road. I scream up at the tall building of 221B, ignoring the looks I receive from passer-by's as I'm forced to sit in the car. The door closes and my screams end instantly, I clam up on the inside.

Mycroft climbs in the door besides me and places my coat over my bare legs beneath my shorts before telling the diver his destination. My head turns and I look up out the car window past John up to the second floor window where Sherlock is looking down. He's stares back, knowing what I'm thinking as the car engine starts and we drive off, leaving Baker Street behind.

_XXXXX_

John closed the wood door closed behind him, heart tight in his chest as he remembered Alex's face as he and Mycroft left. John felt fury grown in his chest as he climbed up the stairs back into to the territory of 221B and saw Sherlock wasn't in the living room or the kitchen. Scratching sounds and heavy footfalls could be heard overhead John scaled the next set of stairs to where his room and what was Alex's room were situated. John pushed the already ajar door open to find Sherlock sitting on what was Alex's bed, leaning against the open window which allowed the flurry of cigarette smoke drift away from the lit up cigarette between the detective's fingers. Either Sherlock was ignoring him or his presence wasn't sound but John didn't push it. He knew why Sherlock had called his brother to take his son away. And it had hurt him; the loss had physically hurt Sherlock Holmes, the man who was normally devoid of any emotions. But his son had broken down those walls so much to let care slip out, causing Sherlock to see where life at Baker Street would lead Alex so he did what he had to do.

John could see the man needed to be alone so the ex-soldier backed out of the room, still not sure if ignored or unnoticed, allowing Sherlock Holmes to feel loss and pain.

**:( Had to write it, so sorry. And things were staring to look so happy as well. I'm just plain evil, not right in the head at all, but its all part of the plot so don't hate me please. I hope you liked it and if you have a chance I wouldn't mind it if you reviewed. Thanks and see you next time :D**


	10. Chapter 10

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hey guys, I left you on a seriously cruel cliffhanger last time and I felt generous enough to update the story earlier than normal as I'm so kind :) so last time was seriously shocking what Sherlock did, shall we see how he and Alex are taking the separation. A few of you have asked for Sherlock's POV so this first part shall. I will even have Mycroft's POV in here as well. I hope I get their personalities right. Hope you like it!**

**Chapter 10**

_Sherlock's POV_

It's been a while now and the flat seems empty. There is John, he may be intelligent but it's not a challenge as his mind is too straight forward and placid due to the lack of serious use. I need a conversation with someone who is equal in intellect sense. Alex had been that, a real challenge, basically as he was clearly like me. That's what seems to scare me. He's too much like me. I'm not familiar with the common sense of fear but Alex has gotten through. John seems to think it's a parent-child connection thing and for once he may be right.

Without Alex here it is definitely like there is something missing. I can compose for hours on end yet he always creeps back into my mind, memories of his time here on Baker Street. I've always watched him but never gotten involved and that suited me just fine but now that he knows of my continued existence it's different. At first he despised me, hoping to get away and that is understandable for a child but as soon as he became close, I saw how he really is - just like me at that age. And if he's like me when I was a child then, especially with my influence, he will grow to be a raging high functioning sociopath and I can't let that happen.

That's not all and I know it. I seem to have begun caring so much I know the dangers Alex could be faced with just for having the name Holmes. Mycroft and I may not exactly be close but he has done a good job in raising my son so far and I supposed the best thing to do is let him continue. Alex still possesses a few of my own traits but maybe they shall be less concentrated in the years to come. It's for the best and I know it, as I always know but I cannot stop thinking I've made a terrible mistake.

_XXXXX_

_Alex's POV_

I play the same keys over and over and over until it's way past perfect and I can recite it in my sleep. It's what I do most times as I left my Violin back at Baker Street, so I now use the piano in the second reception room by the dining area in Uncle Mycroft's house. I'm surprised my Uncle hasn't yet to tell me to play something different as he used to, but I suppose he can guess that I'll give him no response as I've not said a thing to anyone ever since I was dragged from Baker Street – that was nearly two weeks ago. I haven't said a single word, not here, not at school, not even to Joey who at first got in a huff but realised what was wrong and let me stay silence. He practically does the talking for me now. But when I'm back at my Uncle's it's relatively silent as without me to even attempt a conversation the house is silent.

It's nearing six o'clock and I hear the front door open right on cue, signalling Mycroft's return. He'll try to make conversation and I really don't want to so I leave the room before he come in search of me. I walk through the kitchen and take my duffle coat off the peg and walk outside into the frozen air of December. There's not much light but I can see where I'm going. I cross the crunching iced grass, wipe my hand over the snow and sit in the tyre, alert of the creaks the ropes make as I swing back and forth, my back to the house.

I can see Uncle Mycroft's figure looking out the window out of the corner of my eye but I don't acknowledge him. If I do I see the similar Holmes traits he shares with his brother and I really don't want to see that. I see a subtle shift and I know Mycroft has retreated. I stay on the swing for a while longer and swing far and high. The oak tree which I swing from is situated in the centre of the unnecessarily large garden so I can view everything as I swing high and I briefly forget.

But the moment of bliss where he is pushed out of my mind doesn't last long and I slow down on the tyre. I push my shoes deep into the ice-layered ground and come to an instant halt and leave the swing, retreating indoors. I re-hang my coat and tread through the house, not loudly to make a point or quietly to avoid detection but normally as if nothing is out of the usual. I reach the stairs and my hand grips the banister as I climb several steps just as the door down the corridor opens, releasing light and Mycroft appears. I stand there, no particular look on my face as I stare at my Uncle. He moves aside as if clearly telling me to turn around and come back down stairs. I obey silently and tread into the office, silent as I step past the fire and sit in the chair in front of Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft himself doesn't sit down; instead he leans against the edge of his desk, ruefully rubbing his cheek after his visit to the dentist.

'It's been two weeks now, Alex, I know this was a difficult transaction for you but sulking inside your head isn't going to get you anywhere.' I look up at Mycroft and my eyes probably are saying much more than I can in words. Mycroft looks back at me with equal demeanour in his eyes and it's a silent battle. Eventually Mycroft sighs and looks out the window briefly before turning back to me.

'Alex, listen, you may be smart for your age but there are still something's you are going to find difficult to understand for now.' Mycroft continues to look at me whilst I study the hem of my jumper. Mycroft moves forwards and tilts my head up.

'Alex, Sherlock does care about you and what he is doing he thinks is for the best. You'll soon see that.' Mycroft's probably rehearsed speech was interrupted by his phone bleeping. The older Holmes removed the mobile from his pocket to open the message he received. As he rang up the sender I climb out of the chair and leave the office to head up to my room. Once there I close the door and sit on the floor, my back against the bed frame and facing away from the door.

I would sit here when I was little and pull out the stuff from underneath my bed and examine them. They were mostly news articles about Him. Instead I root beneath the bed for my school bag and when my hands grasps material I pull it out only for it to be revealed to be the old Deer-Stalker hat I used to wear. There's a photograph in the main living room downstairs on the mantle above the fire of me wearing this hat. I'm pretty sure Sherlock had one in Baker Street but I'm not sure.

I toss the hat and the memories aside and correctly retrieve my bag and pull out the work we were given. It's too easy and normally I would burn the work my old teachers gave me but Mr. James has tried hard to get me some spare GCSE papers and the least I can do is make it easier for him. I uplift the bag and let my books and spare pens and pencils roll out across the floor. The books landed with a soft flump but when something heavy falls against the carpet my mind is distracted from my homework. The Tablet has remained within the darkest depth of my school bag since it was first found within my desk. I slowly pick the device up and switch the screen on. I open up the photographs and begin the flick through them, from the one where I am sleeping on a sofa at a few months old to the last one where Sherlock is standing me up on his lap as I clutch at his curls. He looks rather annoyed at it but there's a ghost of a smile on his face in the picture and I instantly close it.

I know it was here, my mother, who gave me this. Who else? Sherlock? If it had been him surely he'd have given it to me at Baker Street when he was still letting me live there. I shift through the other programmes on the Tablet and come to the 'Notice Board'. There's a virtual yellow sticky note on the screen with a few numbers and letters typed in on it.

018-03/0077653/H, A.H

I run the numbers through my head and try to make sense of them but I cannot make any meaning out of them until I spy the piece of card under my bed. It's a birthday card from Uncle John for my sixth birthday. I have a few things under my bed so it would easily be a missed. But the card is a blessing, it makes me think and realise what the first set of numbers mean – 018 meant 18th and 03 meant March, the 18th of March is my birthday, which ties in with the two letters – H, A.H are my initials for Holmes, Alexander Hamish. The other set of numbers I cannot make sense of, some sort of sorting code, like a serial number but why and what for I cannot figure out.

Nobody knows I've got the Tablet and nobody can know but if I want to find out what the number is I have to show it to someone. The original author of the note would know but where she is I don't know, she could be anywhere as I haven't seen her since before the Tablet arrived.

There's one person who could but no. I'm not going anywhere near him. I'm not. I don't care what the number is or how it is relative to me I am not going anywhere near him. Maybe Uncle John? He's smart. Not Holmes smart but smart. I could show it to Uncle Mycroft but he'd ask questions which will be hard to get out off and whereas with Uncle John I can make something up. He'd be doubtful but still try and help me whereas Mycroft wouldn't help until he knew the number's source.

I'll see Uncle John then. He may be at Baker Street but Sherlock never answers the door and John is off on Thursday nights so he's most likely to open the door, not Sherlock.

I clutch tightly at the sleek portable computer and head out of my bedroom. As I descended the stairs I hear Uncle Mycroft on his mobile, sounding truly annoyed at something, maybe his beloved British Government has collapsed with him leaving it alone for over ten minutes. I sneak into the kitchen and avoid the cook who is preparing dinner as I slowly dislodge my coat from the peg and I slip out the kitchen backdoor which lead to a pathway between the wall to next door, leading to the front and the back. I head towards the back to avoid any chance of Mycroft seeing me and run across the great grassy Iceland and moved under the ivy lines and creepers to the back gate, dislodge it and push my way outside and run down the posh avenues of London's higher class and head towards the main road for a cab with my hood up to avoid the cameras and the Tablet in my pocket.

_XXXXX_

_Mycroft's POV_

Being a Holmes means you're meant for greater things, not always good things but great nether the less. I disconnect the call between myself and the member of the Security team I personally put together to keep an eye on the people who carelessly attacked my nephew. The official man had phoned to say a fake passport had been reported in Heathrow and how cameras at the various security checkpoints had identified the man as Lenard Todd: the Australian responsible for my nephew's beating. The man has returned to the soil of Britain and no-one knows why but I'm sure I do. Sherlock hadn't informed me of the man's intention to hurt Alex but I'm certain for it to be caused by his heritage. So far the cameras of London haven't seen Todd yet so the most reasonable deduction is that he is in hiding, lying low hoping if his existence has been noted for it to be soon forgotten before returning openly.

I am not going to allow the man to hurt Alex again. The exact reason is still unclear as Sherlock hadn't been the easiest person to talk to as he sat stationary beside's Alex's hospital bed for four weeks straight, near enough depriving himself of food and sleep as he waited for the boy to awaken.

I've ordered maximum security alert to stay wide eyed and awake on the lookout for Todd but the man seems consistent, mostly rather unintelligent if he thinks it wise to return after the 'message' Sherlock had given him last time.

Whatever Todd wants he seems certain Alex is the key to finding it. How my currently mute nephew fits into this man's mind as a key I have no idea. I suppose the best thing it to try and get through to Alex himself. The boy always wanted to be treated as an adult as soon as he got out of the fantasy world of being either a pirate or Sherlock Holmes, so now is the time to give him what he wants.

I climb the stairs but I know he is gone as soon as I see the open door. He never leaves it open, even when he is absent from the room so I know he has gone with something serious on his mind and whatever it is I am certain it is something to do with what Todd wants.

_XXXXX_

_Alex's POV_

During the entire cab ride I look through the Tablet, for anything else unusual which is a big helpful clue for the number sequence between my name and birthday but alas there is nothing. Uncle John is my only hope as I do not wish to even be in the same space as Sherlock. I ask the cabbie to stop roughly three streets away and I climb out, knowing going directly to Baker Street will make me stand out when Uncle Mycroft starts the manhunt for me once noticing I'm absent once again.

I lock the Tablet and place it securely in my coat pocket as I walk the lengthy streets, grateful for the slight number of people still outside and my hood. Shadows dance across shop windows and I begin to become paranoid, certain the shadow which has just passed is one identical to one I saw streets back. Maybe I'm just paranoid or my head's a little weak after the month of sleeping, but I keep an eye on the snowy ground as I walk, counting the same shadow another three times on my continued journey to Baker Street.

I finally reach the black door of 221B and see something that makes my stomach churn. The door is open ever so slightly. It couldn't have been Mrs. Hudson as she had travelled to Birmingham to visit her sister for Christmas and Uncle John nor Sherlock left the door unlocked. I push my hand against the door and step into the hallway. It's deserted and dark. I try the light switch but to no avail, which has instantly made everything just a bit scarier.

I climb the stairs, the creaks and groans much more audible when you wish to be quiet. I reach the landing to be faced with the closed door which leads to the living room. The whole corridor is dark and the only source of light is the faint glow from beneath the door but I know it's not a light of comfort and welcome. I steadily move forwards and push my hand up against the cool surface of the door and push.

I know what I'm about to find judging by the scuff marks on the floor and the faint scratch on the side of the door. My idea is proven correct as I step into the abandoned living room to see everything scattered around as if buglers broken in, found nothing of value and left the mess. It clearly wasn't burglars as the Television and the laptop's are still in the room. The array of books carelessly thrown across the carpet clearly tells me the intruder had been looking for something but had not found it.

I wonder to where Uncle John and Sherlock could be, maybe out for a Chinese or on a case but I know it's not true by the state of the two upturned chairs on the opposite sides of the table, clearly telling me about the shock the two occupants had received when the intruder appeared.

'But why not switch the lights off afterwards...oh.' I whisper to myself just as realization dawns on me as I hear the creak of a floorboard and the churning in my stomach increases. I slowly turn around in the living room of 221B Baker Street to face the person behind me, who'd been a shadow on my way here, knowing I would eventually return.

**CLIFHANGER! I know, I'm absolutely cruel to you poor people but what can I say? I enjoy it :) I hope you liked it and if you did please can you take a minute to tell me in the reviews, which are much appreciated. Thanks and I'll see about writing the new chapter soon. **


	11. Chapter 11

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys, it's UPDATE TIME! Again, I left you on a cliffhanger as I am so evil so I thought it best to put you all out of your misery and let you see what will happen next…enjoy :) **

**Chapter 11**

I slowly turn around in the living room of 221B Baker Street to face the person behind me, who'd been a shadow on my way here, knowing I would eventually return. The man's heavy breathing indicates tiredness and I know I can use this for my advantage. As I turn to face the large man his arm swoops down to knock me off my feet but I'm expecting this and I duck just in time, resulting in the man to whack his hand against the doorframe rather painfully. In his moment of pain I recognize him as one of the Lackey's who had helped put me in hospital and I stretch out a kick but I don't seem to even manage to dent the thick muscle bursting under the skin.

He regains his hand and pushed me off my feet and I slide along the carpet, the Tablet from my pocket is released and spins across the floorboards. The man steps forth and see's the machine and looks between us both. I now know what it is he wants from me and he dives for it just as I pick up a lamp and give him a strong whack across the head. The man grunts and falls and I scoop the Tablet up and run from the room after delivering a mighty kick against the man's ribcage.

I jump the stairs and am lucky not to break my neck but I don't think on those dangers as I gallop out onto the street, aware of the ice as I sprint the pavement and hail a cab and climb in just in time.

'Scotland Yard.' I pant at the cabbie, who drives off just as the Lackey appears out the door of 221B. I lean over the seats, smile and wave as I hold up the Tablet as the cab merges into the traffic and away from the brute.

_XXXXX_

The cab pulls up just round the corner and I scrape together the last of the money in my pocket and pay the fair. As the car leaves with a gust if wind which ruffles my dark hair I step across the streets in an undisguised hurry. I reach the gate and see a police officer on duty. He looks down at me and I try the smart approach.

'I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade please.' The policeman just raises his eyebrows at me.

'I.D.?' I look at the man as if he's stupid.

'I'm a kid, I don't have an I.D. I should be allowed to go in.'

'Sorry kid there's a big meeting on, I can't let you in I'm afraid. Come back tomorrow and I'll see.' I frown at the officer and realize I'm not getting anywhere so I back up and head into a crouching position at the end of the street when he thought I'd left. I watch the man walk up and down past the gate for another ten minutes until a new officer turned up, a smallish woman who joked with the man before he left and she took his position.

I think of my advantages to get in. I need to see Lestrade and he can help me find Sherlock. If the lackey is out to get me then the Australian must be out there. I know he was deported but if he really wants to he can get back into the country rather easily. An idea strikes me and I poke myself in the eyes until red raw and tears drip down. I make myself visible and walk down the street, hiccupping as I make my way over to the woman in the luminous jacket. She notices my red face and me and sympathy fills her eyes as I step up to her. A lot of people have always considered me to be younger than nine and I finally have found an advantage.

'I've lost my Mummy.' I say in a small, weak voice. It's sort of the truth I justify in my head; I actually don't know where she is. The woman crouches down before me and looks between the New Scotland Yard building and me.

'What's your name sweetheart?'

'Alex. I'm seven and I can't find my Mummy or my Daddy. I got lost and they always said go find a nice police officer.' I practically whisper as I place my thumb in my mouth. The woman reaches a decision instantly and it's the one I want; she extends her hand and leads me through the gate and into the main entrance. We step into a lift.

'Don't worry, we'll find your Mummy.' I smile up at the woman through the forced tears and know I'm one step closer. The lift stops and I can see Lestrade's division at the far end of the corridor but we head in another direction. We walk into a small lobby area, which I know leads to the information center, which would help, locate anyone.

'Can I go to the toilet please?' I ask in the small and feeble voice and the woman points out the boy's toilets down the corridor. She asked if she needed anyone to go with me and I very nearly rolled my eyes but I restrained myself and shook my head. She tells me to come straight back here afterwards and I nod and leave the room in a childish walk and once clear of the woman's view I dry my eyes and head down the corridor. I step into the division and see a few officer's are still on duty. I spy Lestrade in his office and I head over, that is until a pair of long male legs appear in front of me and block my path. I look up and sigh dramatically as I see Anderson looking down at me.

'What, are you doing here?' Anderson sneers and I am sorely tempted to push him over.

'I'm here to see Lestrade. It's not illegal.'

'No one's allowed in here unless authorized. Trespassing can get you into a lot of trouble you know.' Anderson smiles and I roll my eyes, knowing the idiot is wasting the time I have.

'Anderson, please leave me alone, I feel my IQ digits drop rapidly when you're around so just move.' Anderson glares at me and attempts to grab my arm and drag me out of the room but thankfully Lestrade has noticed us and has come outside.

'Alex? What the hell are you doing here?' The Detective asked bewildered I managed to get in.

'Just having a chat with you officer here, Lestrade. Please restrain him or you'll have to restrain _me_.' Anderson sneered again and I kicked him in the ankle to demonstrate.

'Why you little…' Anderson cursed.

'Anderson get back to work. Alex, in here, now.' Lestrade moved aside and I step into his office, ignoring the seething glare my back is probably receiving. Lestrade closes the door and the blinds rattle. I can see Anderson half watching half talking to Sargent Donovan who is now looking my way. I smile comically and wave before closing the blinds. Lestrade raises his eyebrow but smirks all the same.

'What can I help you with? Has Sherlock gone and put another man in a coma? If he has I won't be able to bury another report and that'll put him at risk.'

'It's not that. It is about Sherlock, but not that. He's gone. So is Uncle John. They're both gone. One of the men who he beat up was there. He was looking for this.' I figure I can trust Lestrade as I pull out and show him the Tablet. He looks impressed at the device as he flips it over in his hands.

'Why would they want this? And are you sure they just haven't gone out?'

'I'm certain. I think I know why they want that Tablet but I can't tell you otherwise you'll be in danger as well.' I think again of the code I found which is relevant to me and I wonder what the other numbers in between my initials and my birthday could be.

'Right.' Lestrade hands me back the device. 'I'll call your Uncle. He'll know what to do in searching for a man who's supposedly dead.' As if my said Uncle has ears all over, the phone in Lestrade's hand rings and we both know its Mycroft. I climb out of my seat. Mycroft won't be able to do anything; in fact he won't let me get involved in this at all. What those men want I have and I know what to do. It's crazy and suicidal but I have the key to save them.

'Yeah, yeah he's here. Don't know how he got in mind but…' Lestrade looks up from his phone call with Uncle Mycroft in time to see me yank the office door open and run out.

'Shit, Anderson! Stop him!' Anderson leaps from his desk as if he's been waiting for this moment and hurls himself to catch me but he lands on the carpet with a burning flump as I run past and slide past Donovan and into the corridor. I hear Lestrade shout after me but I keep running. I ditch the idea of the lift and push my way through into the stairwell, jumping the steps two at a time. I look up quickly during my descent to see Anderson, Lestrade and another officer chase after me. I reach the ground floor and see the closest exit.

I run into the fire door and the alarm blares as I trigger it with the door as I run out onto the street, passerby's looking at the source, but only in time to see me run as fast as I can down the street just as Lestrade and Anderson reach the street and see how far ahead I've gotten and release there's no stopping me now.

Car horns bleep angrily as I run across the road in the middle of the traffic, narrowly missing a double decker. I keep on running until I'm certain I've lost them. I'm now on the main road, the lights of London flashing before my eyes in the dark and the cold air mixing with the loud traffic noise. I stop and lean against a building to catch my breath. As I do, I notice a security camera on top of a pillar across the ay pointing directly at me and I'm certain it's zooming in. I know its Mycroft who, by now, will be completely infuriated with me.

I reach into my duffle coat pocket and retrieve a handy sticky note and a pen. I jot the words down and stick it to the lamppost besides me on my left. I leave, knowing the note is being read through the distant camera lense.

'_I'm fine. I'm a Holmes.'_

_XXXXX_

I don't know were they'll be. But I don't fancy going there, as it will be an advantage to them. I need to leave them a message. How, I don't know. I walk through the inner streets of London, passing homes with soft lights within with people sitting comfortably inside. I pass one window and see a family all surrounding the television. Any other boy in my situation would probably beg for a family like that (I might have once.) But now I look on them and think about how boring their lives must be. I then realize I'm enjoying the chase, the thrill, the adrenaline rush I'm getting from all of this. I shake my head as I realize just how much like Sherlock I am.

I'm not him.

I sit on the bench and pull the Tablet out. I've not properly gone through all of the applications on offer so I sit, staring at the bright screen lit in the darkness as I scroll. One app catches my eye.

_Cell messaging system_

I open it up and see a display that would allow you to send text messages via the app to any mobile number on the planet. It would be helpful but I don't have the Australian's number on my contacts under 'kidnapper.'

I sigh and frown at the page as I think. Think, people normally just don't think. But I can and I do. I scroll through the instructions and something from long ago clicks in my mind. Something I had overheard Mycroft say on the phone when I was little.

'UK.778.' It's reference number, to all phone numbers connected or carried by a British mobile connection. I begin trying to find my way into the application's binary code files and begin editing. One wrong digit and I will collapse the whole program, rendering it useless. I type in the right codes that will translate as UK.778 and I re-activate the application to success. I type my message and press send. It take a lot of power and stretches to up to twenty minutes of me sitting on this cold hard bench as I watch the little envelope on the top corner say the word 'sent.'

I know he'll get my message. Anyone else will just ignore it; consider it spam but not him. He'll understand.

_Want what you're after? Pick me up from school tomorrow and we can trade._

_AH_

I open up the Tablet and find a map of London that is conveniently filled with addresses for Youth Hostels and places to stay. I close the Tablet down and head in one direction, waiting for dawn and what the school morning will bring.

**Another chapter done. **

**What will happen next? Will Alex give them what they want and why do they want it? Will Irene make an appearance again? You'll have to wait until next time to find out. I hope you liked it and if you did I would appreciate it if you told me in reviews :) until the next time guys.**


	12. Chapter 12

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys, thanks to everyone who's been reading this story :) So shall we see how Alex is going to help Sherlock and John? And just where are they? Read on to find out. **

**Chapter 12**

At precisely 21:17 last night, everyone using a British mobile carrier would have received that text message. 75% would have ignored it. 20% would have believed it to be a practical joke of sorts. 4% would have become suspicious and 1% would understand it. I don't care who understands it, there's only one person whose attention I require. Sunlight is drifting across my face – I can feel it and I subconsciously bury myself deeper beneath the quilted duvet before realisation dawns. I push the heavy duvet off myself and I rub my eyes. The hotel room is pretty neat. Not five star but neat.

It's a lot more higher-class than what I would have picked out by myself what with Uncle Mycroft and Lestrade looking for me but my 'companion' took away the suspicion of a nine year old renting a hotel room by himself. My companion is in the room right now, sitting on the edge of the bed, clearly been texting but now the attention is focused solely on me. Irene smiles at me before rising and moving up the bed to sit beside me. I lean into her and she wraps her arms around me.

'I haven't changed my mind you know.' I say, my voice muffled but distinguishable. I feel the motor of Irene's muscles tell me she is nodding but I know she's still not happy with the scenario. She stands up from the bed and I pull myself out from the duvet, still dressed in my clothes from the previous day (even my coat in case of a needed fast exit). Irene sits down at the dressing table beneath the arch of a wall the hotel room had to offer, whilst I step out onto the small balcony, resting my arms on the twisted black metal bar. A mist was overhanging London and I can barely make out the London eye or any other landmarks in the distance. The wind whips my face and I step inside away from the chill.

Irene stands from the dressing table after replacing her jewellery and holds out the Tablet before me.

'Are you sure about this?' She asks like any other concerned mother, despite her being far from the typical mother.

'I'm not too sure myself. The plan will work, but only if they decide to turn up.'

'They're desperate, of course they will.' I move around the room with the Tablet, flicking through the system until I came across the row of numbers.

'These numbers, they're the code that was one the flash-drive aren't they? They one's I was beaten up over?' I can see discussing the way I was kicked up still unsettles Irene, not in a scared way, but rather a flame that told me how she wished she'd joined Sherlock in the beating of the beaters.

'I don't understand those numbers anymore than you do. But by the fact they were willing to hurt you over them when you are clearly linked, I would guess they have no clue about what those numbers mean either.' I sighed and closed the Tablet before placing inside my coat pocket. Irene passed over the small purchase I had made the previous night and I placed it within the tongue of my trainer. My mother strode forwards and smoothed my hair down and tugged on my crumpled coat.

'You could use a serious bath.' I roll my eyes at her; the normal mother mode doesn't suit her much. She leans forth and kisses the top of my head.

'Stick to that plan and get out of there if there's trouble.' I just smile at her.

'I'm a Holmes. Trouble is an occupational hazard.'

I left the hotel room, heading towards what I have to do. But I make a small detour on my way to school. I forgot to do my homework so I need someone's answers to the solution.

XXXXX

The school gates are thriving with families sending off their children and passersby shuffling along the streets. I spy Joey inside the playground, leaning against our usual spot along the railings, waiting for me. I can see him but he can only see me if he looks up. I stand on the roof of the three storey building across the street from school (I think it's a travel agents) as I watch for the disguisable person. I don't know if it will be the Australian himself or his Lackey's or someone completely different, but all I know is I can signal them and when they come forth they are stepping into the unknown.

The early morning wind of mid December is lapping at my dark hair and coat lapels. I move to push my hair back and as I do I feel the growth of my hair curling once more.

There. On the street. A man. A big man, no, seriously, he's _huge_. Butch and lean as he stands on the road. Clearly standing out for my benefit but not his. Some parents cast wary looks as they pass but he plays ignorant. Idiot. My eyes have seen lies before and past experiences tell me this man is more for show, for intimidation.

He's watching, observing all the children heading into the school, watching for the signs of the dark haired boy with the notable cheekbones and the demeanour of an intelligent mind.

I watch and wait.

He watches and waits.

The school bell rings and everyone heads inside and the street begins to lessen in density. He's casting his eyes across the threshold of the school and the street to see my absence. I step from my position onto the ledge, clearly visible. I picked the right moment, less people on the street so he is casting his search net wider, leading for him to cast his eye across the traffic, over the bins and up three storeys to see me, standing on the edge, brushed by the wind, a Tablet computer clearly displayed in my hands.

He strides forth, tugging on his jacket lapel, clearly speaking into a receiver. He's going to head around the back to create less havoc. Either way doesn't matter. He'll see sooner or later. I peer over the edge to see he has tried the back way. He'll be climbing up the fire escape just as I used to as I could reach the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. He's here now, the wind much more careless as he walks across the dusted roof.

'Alex Holmes?'

'Do you need to ask?' The man put his hand forth. I held back.

'You get what you want when I get what I want.' The man sneered at my words.

'We're not stupid you know,'

'Really? Well you guys deserve an Oscar then.' The man frowned as he processed the words but gave up and stretched his arm more. I shook my head, with a playful sad face as I started walking backwards.

'Give it to me.'

'Umm...no.' At this I drop the Tablet like a spoilt child in the fit of a temper tantrum. The screen smashes and I begin to pound on in with my trainers. The man rushes forth to salvage what he can but with one mighty sweep the remains of the Tablet screen and the destroyed circuits are kicked over the edge of the roof and their descent can be heard as it hits the fire escape before silence erupts. The man stares at the small shards left on the roof before reaching forward and his meaty hands cling around my throat. I choke and splutter as he lowers me to the ground in time with the oxygen deprivation.

'Wait...'I manage to squeeze out of my throat. The man needs more convincing other than mercy and my head desperately tries to remember the rest of the plan. 'The codes...I know them...only me, nothing else...' The man considers this and slackens his grip and I land on the stone. The shards of the Tablet are paining red on the palms of my hands but I'm too busy trying to erase the black dots dancing in my eyes. I cough violently before the man drags me up by my collar. He's talking into his lapel again and I know the suggestion has worked. He knows returning empty handed is him signing his own death certificate but with me...he might just be alive to see the sunset.

_XXXXX_

I've blacked out. I'm doing this a lot recently. There's shuffling beside me. Restrained shuffling and something coarse is rubbing my wrists as my palms sting from the cuts. I open my eyes and I seemed to have been blinded but I realise it's just dark. Sweat is dripping down my head as the heat is stifling, unbearable even.

The shuffling returns and my breath catches in my throat as I realise there is something living on either side of me. I close my eyes and let my head drop to feint unconsciousness but I don't think they can see me any more than I can see them. I slowly tug at my wrists and find them tightly bound (rather uncomfortably) behind my back and what feels like a plastic chair. My restless movements most have knocked against the thing breathing besides my left ear and voice speaks in a low whisper.

'Alex? Are you awake?'

'Uncle John?' I feel the man nod from habit but confirms out loud due to the consuming darkness.

'What have you done now?' John asks, sounding rather jokingly despite he is tied up and held captive by criminals. I suppose he's gotten used to it.

'I wouldn't share.' I mutter under my breath and something to my right fidgets and I think it must be Sherlock. He doesn't say anything despite the conversation is audible. I don't say anything to him either. In fact as far as I'm concerned he's not there. I'll only help get him out of here because Uncle John won't like my idea of leaving him here.

'Where are we?' I ask and there's silence. John is obviously waiting for Sherlock's deduction from what he can see but he remains mute so John fills in best he can.

'I'm not sure, somewhere near the river, I can smell salt and the air is rather damp.' I run the details through my computer like mind but the possibilities of out location are endless. And the chances of rescue are lessening in numbers as the minutes begin to tick by. We sit in silence, John occasionally tugging at his ropes through his solider instinct but to no avail. I say nothing and Sherlock says nothing.

The distinctive sound of a bolt being unlocked scrapes against my ears and previously unseen door in front of me is pushed open and harsh artificial light beams in on us, forcing out eyes to squint. My hear races as I see the men with guns approach and my hand grasps someone else's. It's either Uncle John's or Sherlock's but whose it is I don't care, I focus on squeezing it and the squeeze I receive back as the men point their guns down at my head.

**Another cliffhanger, I really need to get over this addiction but it's so fun :) so please don't hate me for giving you all another cliffy but I'm just cruel in my nature. Hope you liked it and if you did please take a sec to review. So what will happen to them? Will they all get out alive? Or will something drastic happen? Find out next time. Thanks for reading :) **


	13. Chapter 13

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hello one and all! It's my favourite time – UPDATE TIME! So I know I'm terrible for leaving you guys on cliff-hangers most of the time so I promise I won't anymore. Maybe. Ok I can't promise that but I can promise you all one thing, you're going to love this chapter. You can trust me on this one. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 13 **

With the now lack of rope rubbing my wrist, I'm grateful. What I'm not so keen on, however, the gun which is stationed at the back of my head; the man in charge is just itching to pull the trigger. The bloodlust loving man drags me away from the room, ignoring the protests Uncle John is making and the violent threats Sherlock announces. He finally speaks and it's in my defence. I will a little better knowing he wants nothing bad to happen to me but since he decided he was going to leave me behind, I have still not forgiven him.

I think Uncle John's idea of us being close to the Thames is right as there is a distinctive smell of salt water and damp mingled with the oxygen rich air as we climb some steps as we reach the surface. From what little light there is, the dust is luminous and I feel childish fear of a monster lurking within the vast shadowy depths of the corridors.

The Gun is held with one hand at my head whilst the man uses his over hand to open a door at which we have just arrived. It seems to be the main living space of squatters – the cabinets are all covered with a new surface of laptops and paper sheets. A worn-out table stands on rickety legs in the centre of the room, a sheet covering the unrecognisable lump in the centre.

I'm forced to sit in the only available chair and within the shadows a figure emerges. The tan, white teeth and now crooked nose are easily recognised as the Australian man steps forth and removes the sheet to show the world the mangled remains of the Tablet.

'How you doin' today Sunshine?' The man throws out the sarcasm so far out it sounds pathetic but the lackeys know it to be a cue for their rough sounding chuckles.

'Come on Sonny, we don't want anyone to be hurt now do we?'

'If I recall, I wasn't the one who was throw into a table.' One Lackey in my line of vision goes thin lipped as the Australian reaches forwards and grips my filth stained shirt.

'Don't play games with me. Tell us what we want to know and you might see the sun again.'

'Is that supposed to be intimidating?' I scoff in an unhelpful Holmes manner and I know I'm not helping my situation by infuriating the man. One Lackey steps forth menacing in manner by the shadows and the sound o him cracking his knuckles echo across the room's threshold. I cringe slightly at the noise but contain any look of fear or doubt.

Wind whistles in my ear as a fist flies past and knocks my chair over. I fall and trap my hand between the floor and chair backing but the idea of pain seems impossible to focus on as my oxygen is taken away.

'Listen kid,' The man says as the biggest Lackey tightens his arms strength around my neck. 'I don't want to have to hurt you all over again, it's difficult to get blood out of silk you know,' He gestered to his peace coloured silk shirt. 'And I just want this over and done within a matter of seconds. So start talking.'

I'm released and allowed oxygen. I massage my throat as the accented man waved his hand over the scattered and battered remains.

'You know what was on there. It was the last copy of that code and you're now the computer. So tell me what I want to know and you can still be home for your cartoons.'

_XXXXX_

'Any luck?' Sherlock hissed to John in the dark. The sound of rope twisting and stretching reached his ears and when the snap happened he knew John's military training finally had a purpose in their lives. John moved around and untied Sherlock before nearly being knocked over as the tall man strode forwards to the door and wrench it open. One man on the other side who's been on a relaxed guarding job was not expecting the turn of events which made it so much easier for Sherlock to give the man one good punch to render him unconscious. The Consulting Detective and ex-Soldier swiped the weaponry the man had on him before moving in stealth along the corridor and towards the slick stone stairs.

One foot at a time they climbed.

They stuck to the shadows like ghosts and made sure there presence was unseen. As they went along their way heavy footsteps echoed towards them and they froze. The thickset man approached the stairs, unaware of the awaiting ambush. The adrenaline had awoken the soldier within John Watson's fibres as he lashed out and used the butt of the gun to hit the man in just the right place – between the shoulder and the neck and the man fell without grace. The landing was heavy and clumsy but the people in the room at the far end seemed undisturbed.

Now that they were both armed they walked in a more brisk pace as the closed in. The door was ajar and Sherlock peered in to see his son being forced up from the ground by the neck of his shirt and forced in front of the remains of something mechanical.

'1.' Sherlock breathed at John who nodded.

'2.' John tightened his grip, as did Sherlock.

'3.' They held their breath and barged into the room. All eyes turned on them as the friends pointed their guns squarely at the Australian, his pupils dilated into dark chasms of shock and anger.

'On the ground now.' John barked his orders at the two lackeys in the room who are seemingly unarmed. 'On the floor or I shoot.' Despite the time passed since John had needed to use a gun, his voice did not waver once. Instead it held strength and a clear threat which the men knew he wasn't faking. Sherlock moved over towards the table which Alex was sat at, his gun still trained between the two lackeys and their boss. He squatted down in front of the boy who seemed to have been roughed up a bit. Alex tried to avoid his eyes but the two pairs of green twins met and held their stare.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock asked, ready to pounce on the Australian who John was backing up into a corner. Alex nodded slightly and Sherlock reached out awkwardly and hugged the boy. Alex was cold and stiff as ice but gave in and slowly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back.

'Come on.' The man whispered and kept one arm wrapped around Alex's shoulders as he kept the other raised and steady. John had managed to have all three men backed in a corner and on their knees, hands behind their skulls.

'We'd love to stay and chat boys, but time calls.' Sherlock spat as the three members of Baker Street quickly backed out of the room and made a beeline for the stairs. They weren't even half way up towards the exit when the bullets began to dance in the dusty air. They reached the top landing and ducked down as they fired back their shots before dashing away, knowing they would be outnumbered if they were all armed. A door was fast approaching and the cool free air of the deserted street greeted their faces. They seemed to be on the water edge of the Thames, the murky depths, lapping at the concrete barrier which they ran across. But they had little time to take in their surroundings as they dodged the flight of the bullets.

Sherlock kept a tight grip on Alex's hand as they ran along the road, narrowly missing the odd fired bullet.

'Sherlock.' Alex bleated out as they stumbled down the road, the bullets had ceased.

'Not now, wait till we're undercover.' Alex's grip was slackening and Sherlock forced his hand to squeeze tighter as he now seemed to drag the boy along.

'Sherlock.'

'Stay quiet Alex,' Sherlock hissed as they darted through the fringes of a park, the frosted ice crunching beneath the soles of their shoes.

'Dad.' Sherlock halted straight away, just after Alex's grip failed. He stopped and turned to face the boy who looked physically sick. Then he saw the dark stain on the boy's shirt, steadily growing, and the edges a dark recognisable crimson. What little strength Alex had left was in his legs but his knees buckled and he was sailing towards the frosted grass just as Sherlock reached out his arms and pulled the boy up.

John was at the gate, the effects of adrenaline clear in his face. He gaped at the stain which was had now smudged onto Sherlock's shirt as he carried his son on his arms, the boy's open eyes and frosted icicles of his breath were the only indications of life as his face was drained of colour and his body limp. They picked up their speed and continued onto the main road where they could summon help. All the way Sherlock spoke in a loud whisper just for Alex's ears only. The carbon copy of Sherlock's green eyes watched the detective intensely and pained as the man made his way to the main road. By the time they finally reached a street with a working phone booth, Sherlock looked down and saw the eyes had closed and there were no more icicles of breath in the air.

**Yeah...I'm a horrible person. And another cliffhanger. It's a serious issue. Sorry it was short. What'd you all think of that? It doesn't stop there, but I might leave it a while so the tension builds :) let me know what you thought thanks. Also the next chapter is going to be seriously important. Thanks for reading. **


	14. Chapter 14

**The Junior Consulting Detective**

**Hi guys, sorry for the wait on this, I had to make it extra good. So I promised you an announcement: Here it is… This shall be the last chapter! The story is now coming to a close, it's been a fun ride and I have enjoyed every moment of it. I hope you have enjoyed this story as well and I decided to leave this until today, as it is the eve of the third series of Sherlock. I have my Moriarty jumper and I am ready for it after a too long two-year wait (Thanks Moffat -_-) Hope you guys are ready for it too. So thank you all for reading this story :) It's meant a lot to me. Now enjoy the last chapter of the Junior Consulting Detective. **

**Chapter 14 **

The beeps of medical equipment were continuous.

Sherlock sat in the plastic hard backed chair, unmoving, pale and ghost-like. He himself looked more ill than the boy lying in the bed directly in front of him. The only signs of life were the blips of the machines and the condensation caused on the oxygen mask, covering the lower part of the face. Sherlock Holmes did not sit still for a long majority of time, he liked to keep his brain active, stretched to the limits but right now nothing was able to distract him from the still form in the children's ward of The Royal London Hospital. He had been forced to pace the ward and the lengthy halls and deduct petty things from doctors and nurses to keep him active although he did not voice these to the members of the medical profession, as they were responsible for his son's health care.

Now there was nothing; he knew these halls like the back of his hand and knew all he needed to about the staff, all he could do now was to be patience as everyone told him but he was not a patient man. He waited, for anything, any sign of movement from the bed but all was still, the same as it had been for the near best of three months. Two months, 3 weeks and 6 days, 13 hours in Sherlock's mind, subconsciously waiting for the clock to stop, for Alex to wake up as he did before. But last time intense life saving surgery and a blood transfusion were not needed. Last time he had not been near fatally shot.

'This is what happens,' Sherlock thought to himself as he leant forward and rested his chin on his thumbs. 'I let people get close and they pay the price.' The face of Moriarty and his threat all those yeas ago surface and Sherlock snapped away from his thoughts, banishing the face into the darkest corners of his mind.

Behind his back, at the far side of the ward, Sherlock heard the door swing open and drag across the floor as it returned to its place. On any normal day he could easily deduct who was approaching by the sounds of their footsteps and closing in breathing pattern but it wasn't a normal day. It hadn't been a normal day in a long time and chances were there never would be another.

'Sherlock…' It wasn't a doctor or nurse's voice, too informal. Not John, not Lestrade, not Mrs. Hudson, Molly, not even Irene. The voice registered as Mycroft, which was confirmed as another chair was placed down besides him and the older Holmes brother sat, eyes torn between his younger brother and the still form of his nephew.

Mycroft sunk into the chair besides his silent brother and placed his closed umbrella against the back.

'Nothing?' Brief words were exchanged.

'Nothing.' Sherlock repeated the word with clear distaste and repetition. Mycroft sighed through his nose and diverted his eyes from his nephew to his brother. Sherlock had spent every second he could at the hospital, barely focusing on himself: forgetting to eat, sleep anything that would divert him from Alex's side.

'It's not your fault, Sherlock. And Alex would not let you accept the blame either. He would argue how he put himself in the firing line.' Mycroft reasoned with what Sherlock believed to be his fault.

'I let him go. I sent him back to you. I left him for them to pick up fairly easily.'

'If you hadn't it wouldn't have made any difference. They would have come after him all the same. I have been wondering…what is it Alex knew which they needed urgently?'

'I'm not sure, there was a broken portable computer at the scene, but what was on it I have no idea.' Both brothers stayed silent again as they watched the condensation Alex's breath made on his mask.

'You mean a lot to him, Sherlock.' Mycroft stated as he turned his eye back to his brother, taking the chance to have a seemingly normal conversation with his brother who most of the time would ignore him. 'When he was younger he would probe for all information he could about you. I tried to shield him away from…some things, but if he wanted to he could easily find it out. He was too much like you. He still is. Enjoys a challenge and will stop at nothing to have the last word. He may have acted like he hated you at some points but I know he didn't, he was confused, as would any normal child in his situation.'

'He's not a normal child though…' Sherlock trailed off, as his gaze remained fixed.

'Yes, that I know. I learn that the hard way when he decided he would like to try effect of gravity by dropping…unusual mixtures from the roof onto the head of many visiting important colleagues. I don't even want to think about the time he nearly set the kitchen on fire, the same as you did.' Sherlock gave off a small laugh, nearly impossible to hear but Mycroft heard it all the same. It was the first positive reaction his brother had portrayed in a long while.

'Did he ever…' Sherlock began, casting his eyes to his brother. '…Try to be like me?'

'Too many times to count. It was either to be a pirate or a detective in his mind. Someday I believed he _was_ you. The resemblance, both physically and mentally, is astounding. Although there is the clear stubbornness from Miss. Adler possessed in him. I have been on the wrong side of Alex's stubbornness before.' Sherlock smirked at the corners of his lips as he turned back to his pale son.

Besides him Mycroft removed his phone, clearly reading a text and frowned at the screen. The man picked up his umbrella and turned to his younger brother.

'You should go home, Sherlock. You are not doing yourself any good just sitting here. I suggest returning for a night's sleep and return in the morning. Nothing has changed so far and they have my contact details, as you are still registered deceased. I shall contact you immediately if anything arises.' Sherlock delved into the suggestion in his mind before grabbing his suit jacket and coat, pulling them over his purple shirt, fastened his scarf and pulled on his gloves before following Mycroft out of the silent children's ward into the hospital before the darkened street.

If they had remained in the ward for two extra minutes they may have noticed the slight increasing twitch in Alex's hand and the increase in breathing pattern.

XXXXX

The call came in the dead of night. As usual, Sherlock was wide-awake. He rarely slept as it was as he knew the perfect routine but for the past few months, he'd lowered his sleeping times and everyone was getting more and more concerned. Sherlock sat in the dim light of the living room of 221B Baker Street, the screen of his laptop glaring at him in a harsh light as he continuously research surviving victims of gunshot wounds. As he had squeezed every piece of information on internal injuries he could out of John's inner medical expert he had succumbed to the Internet, books and the public library.

John and the others did everything they could to get him to sleep and eat properly but he either waved them off with a string of insults or just ignored them.

The clock on the laptop struck 03:30 but Sherlock didn't take note as he continued to search the online world for information to be compressed into his mind. He pushed the laptop away and sighed into his hands. He was becoming strained. Lack of sleep was catching up and he wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer. The man slammed the laptop shut as he became increasingly agitated. He left his chair besides the fire, his dressing gown swinging from behind as he headed towards his bedroom for a suitable amount of sleep before returning to his search and the Internet.

As he walked slow and zombie like through the kitchen towards his room, he heard the distant ring of his phone. He frowned and turned back to the living room to retrieve the device off the mantle. He lifted the device and answered immediately – the science of deduction telling him what the call was about.

'Sherlock Holmes.' He spoke into the device to which Mycroft's voice rang out and confirmed it.

'He's awake.'

Sherlock had left the flat in less than five minutes, causing enough noise to wake John. The ex-army doctor groggily walked downstairs just in time to see his flat mate rush down the stairs.

XXXXX

Outside the ward where Sherlock had spent so long he met Mycroft, standing outside the door. The man nodded for him to go in and Sherlock braced himself, as he did not know how Alex was going to react. The detective stepped slowly down the ward to the end where a curtain was draw and two doctors came out, deep in conversation. They didn't even notice Sherlock as they left the ward. Sherlock reached the curtain and dragged the childish patterned fabric across.

Alex lay with his eyes closed, the oxygen mask pulled off and hanging loose around his neck, breathing deeply. The machines were still bleeping but the numbers on the screen were just the right ones.

Sherlock stood besides the bed, watching as his son silently breathed, his eyes closed as they had been for nearly three months, but he changed position and seemed more content instead of uncomfortable hooked up to hospital equipment. He continued to stand there watching until Alex must have sensed him and opened his eyes.

The green Holmes eyes briefly scanned the room before looking up from the disarray of pillows to Sherlock. They looked at each other in silence for a while before Alex grinned.

'Hi.' Sherlock smiled and pulled his usual chair up besides the bed. Just as he sat down Alex reached out fast and clung around his neck. Sherlock had finally grasped what to do in this situation and hugged the boy back, wary of the pain he may still be in. But if he was in any pain, Alex didn't show it as he hugged Sherlock as tightly as he could around the neck, burying his head in the man's coat shoulder.

'How are you feeling?' Sherlock asked as Alex's overgrown curls attacked his face.

'Tired, ironically.' Sherlock couldn't help but smile as his son used his own vocabulary, not expected from a nine year old.

'What did I miss?' Alex asked as his pulled away, but still gripping at Sherlock's coat.

'Nothing much, John got another new jumper which looks terrible. He started to grow his moustache again but it was gone as soon as I threatened it with a lighter.' Alex laughed and hugged Sherlock again. Sherlock rubbed the boys back and pushed him back into the hospital bed; if the nurses came along and say him getting worked up he'd be in trouble. As if summoned by the power of thought, a nurse came along the ward. She smiled at Alex.

'Hello, look's whose awake. Have you got any pains love?'

'No. I'm fine thank you, just tired.' Alex looked at the woman, quizzing for a second. 'Your suspicion about your boyfriend cheating is correct. I'd break it off now if I were you since he's only using you to wash his clothes.' The nurse gaped between Sherlock and Alex before quickly noting down on his chart and sped from the ward.

'Good job.' Sherlock smiled down at the yawning boy. 'But you left out how it's her sister he's cheating on her with.' Alex rolled his eyes.

'Give me a break would you, I've been asleep for nearly three months.'

'Yes, and you should rest. If you make progress the doctor will let you come home.' Alex stayed silent for a few seconds.

'Do you mean...Baker Street or Uncle Mycroft's?' Sherlock looked down at the boy.

'Baker Street. If you want to of course. If you so wish to return to Mycroft's then I will not hold it against you.'

'If I choose Baker Street…you won't send me away again, will you?' Sherlock's eyes locked onto Alex's with determined truth.

'No. I will never send you away again. I did that for your own protection. But I see now it was a mistake. I promise you Alex, I'm not going to leave you again.' Alex smiled at Sherlock and the two hugged tightly.

XXXXX

Mycroft stood outside the ward for nearly an hour as he let Sherlock interact with Alex first. Judging by the lack of yells, everything was all right. Mycroft pushed open the door and walked down the ward, his umbrella one step ahead of him as usual. He reached the end to where Alex had been situated for the previous months, expecting to find father and son deep in conversation about something. He was only half right – father and son were together but they were far from talking. Both were flat out on the hospital bed, fast asleep. Side by side they both shared a look that made them identical apart from height. Mycroft gave what might have been the slightest of smiles; turned and left the ward, letting them both get some sleep.

XXXXX

_2 months later_

'That. Must have been the most boring, let alone inaccurate, thing I have ever seen.' Sherlock was happy that the play had finally finished. He was the first one out of the school to stand in the deserted playground, the night closing in as he breathed in the cold air after sitting in a cramped hot school hall for the last hour and a half watching the school's year five's class perform the worst cover of Robin Hood he had ever seen. John made it out of the bustling crowds and stood besides his friend.

'It wasn't that bad Sherlock.' One look was all it took and John finally nodded and agreed the play had been awful: one kid burst into tears, four forgot their lines and two had a fight half way through. The only bearable part was when Alex came onstage, playing the Sherriff of Nottingham, and stopped half way through his lines to correct everyone else. The boy even criticized the English teacher for writing such a bad script for the play. The other parent's stared at the boy in shock and shame whilst Sherlock and John at the back could not help but laugh as they received a wave from Alex in his too big costume.

The man of the hour arrived himself. Alex had run off straight at the end and changed out of the ill-fitting costume back stage and ran outside to greet Sherlock and Uncle John. The two saw the boy push through the last of the rushing parents and couldn't help but laugh as they remembered his performance.

'Nice acting Alex.' John smiled as he lifted the boy up; his dark curls shuffling in the wind.

'Thank you but next time, if Mrs. Hopkins wishes to write another school play, I'll spare you all the trauma and tell her not to bother.' Sherlock smiled and ruffled his son's hair as the three of them left the school premises, earning some strange looks as the recognized Alex and remembered his 'acting' skills.

'Maybe next time we'll have to convince Mycroft to attend.' Sherlock laughed. 'He wouldn't last five minutes in there.' The trio laughed again as they set off on their way.

The three walked home as they discussed the play's disaster and a case Lestrade had brought up for them yesterday. Once outside 221B, John placed Alex on the pavement and said goodbye, as he had a date with the receptionist from the surgery. Sherlock unlocked the door and noticed tiny scuffmarks on the inner doorframe.

'Stay close to me Alex.' Sherlock said quietly as they moved upstairs, each step creaking and groaning. They reached the living room to see the door wide open, the fire crackling and Irene Alder sitting on the sofa. She smiled graciously up at Sherlock and Alex. The boy gaped at his mother before rushing over and hugging her tightly. Irene smiled over her son's shoulder and swayed side to side with Alex in her arms.

'Are you alright, my love?" She asked in a motherly tone, despite her looking as far from a mother you could get with her tight black dress and dark hair styled to perfection. Alex nodded and sat down on the sofa next to her, his legs only just reaching over the edge as he cuddled into her side. Sherlock watched the scene quietly as he stepped into the living room.

'Are you staying?' Alex asked from his mother's side. Irene smiled at her son before looking at Sherlock. The man gave off a small grin.

'Why not?' He said.

'Please do, mother, you can help with he case Uncle Lestrade has given us. A man's body washed up from the Thames barefoot.' Irene smiled at her son and at Sherlock, a glimmer in her eye.

'Why not?' Sherlock grinned again and sat down on the sofa, his arm along the backrest behind his family.

**There we go…a happy ending. :) I can't believe it's over. I hope you all enjoyed this story and I hope you all enjoy tomorrow's new Sherlock episode. Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and followed this story :) Might see you again if I decided to write another Sherlock story featuring Alex. **


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